


Pretty-psycho-boy

by SD_Ryan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Bit Not Good, Anal Sex, Angst, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Criminal husbands, D/S type relationship, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Porn, Rimming, Sadism, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, forced restraint, mormor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-01-16 21:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1361680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SD_Ryan/pseuds/SD_Ryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian doesn't know what to make of the sharp-eyed criminal who slams into his life in a scuzzy back alley. Anyone else would run, but Seb isn't just anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hello, Pretty

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a longish piece told in short chunks. Explicit rating for later chapters. I've added a non-con tag because Jim is in no way sane, and as I see it, consent is pretty low on his list of priorities. My headcanon Seb is a masochist and loves Jim's unpredictable violence. So reader beware: you will not find happy puppy cuddles here.
> 
>  
> 
> **EDIT 9/5/14:** I just wanted to address the use of "psycho" in the title and various references to Jim being crazy throughout the story. I'm not qualified to diagnose anyone's mental illness, fictional or otherwise, but this story is told from Sebastian's perspective, and he's a bit more cavalier about these things. Please understand throwing those words around in real life is ableist and can be painful for people with mental illnesses.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A shiver slinks down my spine. I don’t hold much stock in threats, but something tells me this man would hunt me down and disembowel me just for the hell of it._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>   _A flick of his cigarette, a squeal of tires, and he’s gone. Under a yellow puddle of streetlight and next to a cooling corpse, I’m left with the distinct impression that whatever life in London might offer, it ain’t gonna be dull. I slip back into the bar and leave by the front. Black eyes and a wicked smile linger in my mind as I walk home. I’ve gone three blocks before it occurs to me I don’t even know his name._  

[ ](http://s1063.photobucket.com/user/moirae13/media/Artwork/mormor-2.jpg.html)

 

 

I order a Dewar’s neat and settle onto a stool. Spend enough time camped out in third world shitholes, and you forget about things like clean glassware and ice. Call it cultural reacclimation. Give me half a second and I can suss it out: even a dive bar at the arse-end of Hackney has an industrial dishwasher and tap water that ain’t gonna give me the runs. But old habits, you know? I pull out a cigarette as the bartender slides my drink over. A phlegmy grunt reminds me London has gone non-smoking, and I snort as I return the pack to my pocket. 

This town. This fucking town. 

Ten years selling my trigger finger to any self-proclaimed warlord with the cash to afford it, and here I am back home, only to discover the Disneyfication of everything I once held sacred. You know things are fucked when Starbucks owns half the real estate on any given street and vegan restaurants outnumber corner shops.

Glass to lips, half my drink goes down in one gulp, burning my throat like honeyed smoke and pooling warm in my gut. A second swig and I’ve drained it. I pat the bar for a refill, telling myself to take it slow this time—nurse it a bit—knowing even as the barkeep pours another round I won’t. 

Patience? Sure, I’ve got patience. Gun in hand, eye on my scope, I’m more patient than Gandhi. I can tell you the pub’s two obvious exits and three others that aren’t so visible. I can describe every sad-sack slumped in the booths and predict their particular poison with eighty percent accuracy (scratch cards, booze, oxy, lesbian porn). I can list thirteen improvised weapons within my reach. But I can’t slow down long enough to enjoy a single fucking drink. All that other shit? It’s work. It’s staying alive, and survival is muscle memory. Lingering over a scotch? That’s the kind of leisure that simply isn’t in my programming.

I knock back two fingers, set a twenty-pound note on the bar, and head towards the toilets. I’m not sure what I was expecting. I don’t know … homecoming should feel like home, right? All I feel is empty. I drain my snake and give up on the pub, heading out the rear exit into the alley. 

Some dick with a shiny black Mercedes has taken it upon himself to block my egress to the main road, and while it would be just as easy to walk back through the building and exit through the front, it’s the principle of the thing, you know? Douchebags with fancy cars don’t get to do whatever the hell they please. This is supposed to be a civilized fucking society. So instead of stowing my irritation and calling it a night, I lean against the driver-side door and light up. I got nowhere to go but my rat-infested bedsit. If Mr Douchebag comes back to move his car by the time I’ve finished my smoke, I won’t stomp my boots over his sleek piece of machinery. If not … well, anyone with money enough for a car like this can surely afford to have a few dents popped out.

The cigarette’s halfway gone by the time a door at the far end of the alley squeals open. Out comes a Goliath of a bloke—big, lumbering, slow. I’m tall. Fit, too. But I’ve got nothing on this guy. From the paleolithic brow to the brass knuckles bulging in his pocket, everything about him screams _Muscle For Hire_. Obvious. Embarrassing. My suspicions are confirmed when he holds the door for a petite pretty-boy in a suit then shuffles on, dull eyes cast down to the oily pavement. Rule number one: the muscle pays attention. At. All. Times. If this behemoth doesn’t get his shit together, he’s gonna get his boss—or more likely himself—killed.

Pretty-boy sees me before Muscle does. He glares, looks me over, then smiles darkly. Hoping for a ringside seat, then. I know his type: this sleazy prick likes to watch, but twenty-to-one he never gets his hands dirty.

Deep drag on my cigarette. _This your car?_  

Long, slow exhale. _Well, fuck you._

“Eddie,” says the suit, his voice soft and amused. 

Goliath finally takes note of my arse resting on the boss’s baby, and he snaps into action, balling hands into fists and drawing shoulders up to his ears. Fucking gorilla.

“Hey! Off the car!”

Look. In spite of evidence to the contrary, I don’t actually go searching for trouble. But some people rub me the wrong way, you know? And this meat mountain and his pixie stick boss fit squarely in the category of people who need to be taught a lesson. 

“You wanna say please?” 

Manners go a long way towards keeping me from beating someone to a pulp, but I’m guessing Eddie here doesn’t have the brain cells to calculate that kind of risk-versus-reward scenario.

“Get the fuck off the car, now!”

Sometimes I hate being right. I settle in—arms crossed and cigarette dangling from my lips—as I wait for the inevitable.

Eddie takes the angry bull approach, barreling towards me in an attempt to catch me off guard. He’s too big. Too slow. You can intimidate people with that kind of bulk, but it’s not actually that useful in a fight. When he’s close enough to attempt a swing, I dodge back, slip my foot out and trip him. Momentum and my guiding hand on the back of his neck drive him forwards, and he kisses the roof of the Mercedes. The wet crunch echoing down the alley spells a broken nose, maybe a cracked tooth. That in itself won’t necessarily take him out. While he’s still trying to figure out what the hell happened, I twist his right hand behind him until I feel a pop. Even now, he could still function with a dislocated wrist, so I give his face another love tap against the car for good measure. With a little nudge, Eddie crumples to the ground a few feet away and gurgles through a low moan. 

I shake my fists out and rest against the Mercedes as the suit crosses the divide. History tells me this can go one of two ways: he’ll back off or double down. If he can manage an apology, I’m happy to drop it, but odds are he won’t. Thing is, I really don’t want to have to hurt him. He’s got such a nice face, and given the choice, I do prefer a fair fight. 

To my surprise, he doesn’t do either—simper or pour on the aggression. Instead, he saunters over and settles himself against the car like we’re two blokes having a friendly chat. His shoulder hovers near my bicep, scent floating up to me, clean and crisp. I’m still trying to work out if he’s brave or just incredibly fucking stupid when he nods at the fag burnt down to the filter between my lips.

“May I have one of those?” His vowels stretch out decadently through a slight Irish brogue. 

Awfully calm for someone who just watched his boy’s face get smashed in. Maybe this is his way of dealing with stress. Usually the little guys like to puff up, scream and threaten—overcompensate—but this one’s cool, unfazed. I can respect that.

I crush the cigarette under my heel and pull out another two, popping one in my mouth and holding out the spare. Instead of taking it, he tilts his head towards me and opens his mouth, tongue resting obscenely against his bottom lip.

Jesus Christ. Is Pretty-boy _flirting_ with me?

This night has definitely taken a turn for the surreal, but I figure, what the hell? It’s interesting, at least. I set the cigarette to his lips and raise my lighter, shielding the flame with my free hand. He sucks in—wide black eyes glowing with reflected light—and exhales through his nose.

“So,” he says, rocking back against the car. “Looks like you’ve lost me a driver.”

Behind his words is the kind of soft threat that might work if he had any leverage here. But he’s got no leverage, and I’m not paying any medical bills, if that’s what he’s angling at. The runt has money to spare, from the look of things. I just hope Eddie opted into the employee health package.

“He’ll heal.”

“No he won’t.”

There’s a loud crack, and Eddie’s skull is suddenly decorating the pavement. Pretty-boy has a smoking Beretta Tomcat in hand, but he’s already tucking the petite piece back into the holster under his suit jacket by the time I think to take it from him. The fucker’s fast. Scary fast.

My cigarette nearly drops from my mouth, but I save it, plucking it between my fingers and making like I just needed to flick the ash away. Fucking sloppy, letting him get a shot off—even if it wasn’t aimed at me. Back in town less than twenty-four hours, and I’m slipping already. I take a drag, buying time, trying to calm my nerves enough so my breath doesn’t waver. I mean, yeah, death is as well-known as a clingy ex-girlfriend by this point, but I wasn’t exactly expecting to flirt with the bitch my first night back. Thing is, whatever I thought about the pretty little bloke before, this is some game-changing shit right here.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he purrs. “I’m not going to kill you.” The way he pins me with his stare spells an unspoken _yet._

I snort. Sometimes I just can’t help playing with fire. “Not with a little lady gun like that.” 

He laughs a dry, slithering rasp. Then his eyes go cold—dark and bottomless, like a vast underground cavern—and it hits me hard. Looking into those black pools, I _finally_ realize what I should have fucking seen before. What I should have known when he fired that shot, should have recognised in his first, creepy smile. This fucker is crazy. He’s bat-shit-padded-room-pump-him-full-of-Thorazine bonkers. 

“No-o,” he intones, his voice dropping into a lower register. “If I were going to kill you, I wouldn’t make it quick like I did for Eddie. He was a valued employee—until he wasn’t—and you’re the scum sitting on my car. No, for you, I’d think of something much more interesting.”

He licks his lips, raises his cigarette. There’s a splatter of red on the cuff of his white shirtsleeve. I wonder how he’ll feel about his “valued employee” when he sees his dry-cleaning bill. Actually, I bet bloodstain removal is calculated in the household budget, line-itemed between Armani suits and Colombian coke.

Eye-fucking. There’s really no other way to describe how he’s looking at me. “Of course, if you wanted to make yourself useful …” 

How the fuck am I supposed to take that? I mean, yeah, on one hand it sounds like he wants me to replace the broken stain on the pavement; but on the other, I think he’s got me in mind for a different kind of job altogether. I know I’m too beat up to be handsome, but I was a good-looking bloke at one time. Had all the girls lining up to be with me, all the boys wanting to _be_ me. He doesn’t seem to care about the good-looking man underneath these years of rough living. His gaze is sliding over my crooked nose and crosshatched scars like they’re something he wants to touch, something he wants to taste.

I swallow hard and try not to think about his plush little mouth and what it might look like on me. Jesus, I can’t imagine letting his teeth anywhere near my prick.

“Ten a.m. tomorrow.” Pretty-psycho-boy jots down a note on a blank card and hands it to me. “Be at this address.” 

“You offering me a job?” Good to be clear about what I’m turning down.

He shrugs. Smirks.

“Don’t need a job.”

“Call it a welcome-home present, then.”

It takes me a minute—I’ll admit, I’m not at peak form here. But what the actual fuck?

“How did you know—?” 

“Oh, don’t be bor-ring,” he groans. “You’ve been doing so well up until now.” The way he talks, it’s like I’ve got a plum benefits package and a corner office on the line, not murder and mayhem.

He pulls on the door handle and I step out of his way, careful not to slip on the red stream leaking out of the pile of meat that used to be Eddie. This whole thing is so fucking off, I’m half-expecting to wake up any second now. But I know, deep down, even my subconscious isn’t this exciting. Reality’s stranger than fiction, don’t they say? 

“We meet tomorrow under friendly circumstances,” Pretty-psycho-boy says as he settles into his seat. “Or we meet another time, and I won’t be quite so charitable.”

A shiver slinks down my spine. I don’t hold much stock in threats, but something tells me this man would hunt me down and disembowel me just for the hell of it.

A flick of his cigarette, a squeal of tires, and he’s gone. Under a yellow puddle of streetlight and next to a cooling corpse, I’m left with the distinct impression that whatever life in London might offer, it ain’t gonna be dull. I slip back into the bar and leave by the front. Black eyes and a wicked smile linger in my mind as I walk home. I’ve gone three blocks before it occurs to me I don’t even know his name.

….

 

[(x)](http://bashermoriarty.tumblr.com/post/95027706010/p-r-e-t-t-y-p-s-y-c-h-o-b-o-y-by)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I don't have a posting schedule, but there are two more chapters written, and I get pretty impatient to post once I have them in the bag. 
> 
> I commissioned the lovely Mormor artwork from Capaow (http://caps-locked.tumblr.com/), who did a fantastic job, don't you think? Special thanks to my darling betas, Darcysmom (https://twitter.com/darcysmom) and Marly580 (https://twitter.com/Marly580) for working on this. They're gorgeous ladies!
> 
> Feedback always appreciated.
> 
>  **EDIT 9/4/14:** Bashermoriarty is the amazing talent behind the above poster. Check out her work here: http://bashermoriarty.tumblr.com/post/95027706010/p-r-e-t-t-y-p-s-y-c-h-o-b-o-y-by
> 
> And Ren has put together a beautiful fanvid/preview: http://ohsodirnty.tumblr.com/post/101783454274/this-simple-minds-pretty-psycho-boy
> 
> Thank you both SO MUCH!


	2. Call me Sir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Oh, I know everything about you, Sebastian.” His smile curls up, eyes shining, and I shudder. “Quite the resume you have there. I knew I’d stumbled onto something last night, but I had no idea.” He steps into my space, head tilted up, breath minty-sharp. “You’re going to be very useful, I can tell.”_

“You bring a gun?”

“‘Course.”

“Good.”

_Well, good morning to you, too._

Pretty-psycho-boy smiles and pops a stick of gum in his mouth. No hello, no hint about what we’re doing here. Just steps out of a cab in a shabby, shit-coloured suit— _what happened to the Mercedes? The Westwood?_ —and asks if I brought my gun.

We’re on the stoop of a run-down dry cleaners, the kind of place that fronts for a low rung of the Russian mob or a two-bit money laundering outfit. I’m not exactly surprised Pretty-psycho-boy is wrapped up in this kind of small-time shit, but I’ve got to swallow down my disappointment. I mean, there’s so much potential here—the spark in his eyes could fuel an inferno, you know? And to find out he’s just some petty hustler … I was hoping for more.

I got nothing better to do today, and maybe I’ll see some scratch when the job’s done, so I follow him inside.

“Mr Schultz? I’m Larry Humbert,” Pretty-psycho-boy says in some bullshit attempt at RP. “Mr Moriarty told you I’d be coming?”

Shoulders sloped, hands in pockets, shuffling across the floor like he doesn’t belong anywhere—and I get it. Little fucker is quite the chameleon. I mean, the accent is great: sounds just like a hotel manager or bank teller who grew up in the wrong neighbourhood: that simpering attempt to be posh, the cascade of crisp consonants absent the undercurrent of arrogance and privilege that comes so naturally to the upper classes. Suddenly, this job feels about a thousand times more promising.

“Yes! Thank you for coming,” says the grey-haired man behind the counter in a slight German accent. “Martha!” he calls over his shoulder, and out trundles a plump frau draped in yards of floral cotton. He tells her to watch the shop and ushers “Humbert” and me through the rows of plastic-covered clothes to a cramped back office. I haven’t been told my role here, so I stick close to the door, neutral stance, looking like someone who may or may not be willing to engage in a little violence, should it come to that. Basically, my default. The two men take seats on either side of a shabby desk, Schultz with a grimace, Humbert a dull stare. Amazing how unattractive he’s made himself with that milquetoast persona; he’s like a West End starlet past her prime, taking cruise gigs for cash. Worn-out. Pathetic.

“I don’t want Mr Moriarty to get the wrong idea,” Schultz begins. “I know what happened was wrong, so many people…” He shakes his head and coughs, sweat streaking across laminate under the slide of his hands. “It’s just, after all these years, it’s not hurting anybody, is it? I wouldn’t even know how to return them.”

Humbert smiles mildly, and if I didn’t know better, I might miss the fire crackling underneath his ash-grey exterior. “Do you have them here, Mr Schultz? I need to verify, of course, before we can move forwards.”

“Yes, of course! I just wanted you to know. I’m not—I wasn’t.” 

He frowns, helpless, unable to complete the thought. As he bends down, I hear the spinning dial of what is likely a compact personal safe. I’m having a hard time getting my bearings, honestly. This isn’t a master criminal we’re dealing with. He’s not even a petty thug. This guy looks like he’d be afraid to cross the street against the light. He comes up with a velvet bundle and sets it away from himself, like it has fangs. 

“I wouldn’t even consider this if we weren’t having such a difficult time with the shop. Everything is so hard these days.” 

His expression is pleading, desperate for absolution in whatever sin he’s committing. Humbert nods in sympathy, and I wonder how much it’s costing him to pretend he gives two shits about Mr Schultz’s guilt. Personally, I want to knock his teeth in. But that’s just me—I don’t respond well to spineless whinging.

“May I?” Humbert reaches across the desk, and with a nod from the sad-sack, unfolds the scrap of cloth.

I catch a flash of gold, the glossy shine of rubies, emeralds, sapphires. Rings, pins, a diamond necklace. A gleaming Star of David pendant.

_Oh. Okay._

“My f-father,” Schultz says, stuttering. “He found these in an abandoned home. It was war. He didn’t think anything of it. He didn’t think. I want Mr Moriarty to know, we’re not anti-Semitic. That’s not what this is about.”

I snort, and Humbert shoots me a glare that’s all Pretty-psycho-boy. Contrite, I cover with a cough and feign boredom. I don’t want to fuck up this deal, but Schultz’s disingenuous remorse is really starting to grate. Middle-aged German in possession of Jewish jewels? The picture’s pretty fucking clear. Your precious papa stole from someone who likely ended up in an Auschwitz oven, and now you’d like to sell the shit. Save me the histrionics and just own up to it.

“We’re not here to judge,” Humbert says pointedly and picks through the pieces. “You need the money, and I’m sure Mr Moriarty can find a buyer.” He folds the fabric back over, pushes the bundle across the desk, and stands. “We’ll be in touch.”

With that, we’re off. A surprisingly bloodless exchange.

Humbert is silent as we exit the shop. As soon as we’re clear of the storefront, he transforms. Gone are the sloping shoulders and hesitant gait. His eyes shine with a self-important light, and even the suit looks a tad more posh. Who knows if this is the real man—if there even _is_ a real man—but it’s the same bloke I met last night, at least.

“So,” I say once we’ve made it down the block. “You’re a fence.”

Humbert huffs, doesn’t grace me with an answer. I’m taking that as a no. Something tells me he’s not called “Humbert”, either.

I tap out a fag, light up. “Doesn’t seem like you needed me in there.”

“Oh, I didn’t need you. I just wanted to see if you’d show, or if I was going to get to make myself a handsome new belt out of your skin.” Casual as you like, he says. As though we’re talking about the weather. As though he hasn’t just threatened to turn me into an accessory. 

I’m still trying to figure out if he’s joking or not when he looks off into the distance, taps his thumbnail against his teeth, and murmurs, “By the way, you ever act as unprofessionally as you did back there, and I will give that gorgeous face of yours a delicious new scar.” Then he flashes a shark-like smile and winks, and the concrete trembles underfoot.

I suppose that’s what passes for flirting in his twisted mind.

It sticks in my gut, the devastating perversity of the man, the terrifying rawness of his words. A rush of adrenaline floods my system, and I can’t tell if it’s inspired by fear or the thrill of imagining him with a knife in hand. I swallow hard, take a drag, and force my feet to carry on. He pulls on a pair of black gloves and hails a passing cab.

“Just wait a moment,” he says to the cabbie before leveling me with his gaze. “A thousand pounds has been deposited into your bank account. Going rate for errands of this sort. If I need you for something a little … messy, you’ll be appropriately compensated.”

I pass over the talk of wet-works and move straight to the hacking of my personal financials. “Wait. How do you know my bank account?”

“Oh, I know everything about you, Sebastian.” His smile curls up, eyes shining, and I shudder. “Quite the resume you have there. I knew I’d stumbled onto _something_ last night, but I had no idea.” He steps into my space, head tilted up, breath minty-sharp. “You’re going to be very useful, I can tell.”

My prick gives a little jump, and Christ is this not the time. I don’t know how he knows about me, but I have no doubt he’s telling the truth. Knowledge is power. And I suspect he is a very powerful man.

“I’d like to be … useful. Just so I know—how do I avoid ending up like Eddie?” It’s a gamble, talking about his dead driver. But the question’s been on my mind since last night, and if we’re really going to be working together, it seems important to know how I might steer clear of certain landmines.

“Hm.” He chews his gum, looking to the side, brows raised. “Eddie was a dumb shit who got in over his head when he should have known better. And his feet smelled. Try to avoid that, okay, pet?”

I grunt. Take a drag. Not gonna let on how much I like hearing him call me pet.

“I’ll be in touch,” he says as he hops into the cab.

“Wait.” My hand is on the door, and his eyes are flashing fire. Guess I just found a landmine. I suppose I should feel sheepish, but I just feel alive. “What do I call you?”

His anger dissipates, replaced by a lecherous gleam. He licks his lips, looks me up and down, and I’m flayed. Exposed, right there on the corner of nowheresville and shit-town. I want to jump into the cab with him. I want to see what’s underneath that crappy suit. Want to feel his vicious little teeth on my skin.

Fuck, this is stupid. That kind of backwards thinking leads people to swim piranha-infested waters. I pull myself together, and he slams the door. The car pulls away, but not before he lobs a parting gift through the open window.

“You were a soldier, yes? You can call me ‘Sir’.”

 

….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your lovely kudos and comments! They make me smile.


	3. Big Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __  
>  **You put on quite the show …**
> 
> _I can’t help but smile. I like the idea of putting on a show for him. I can picture him watching me, sitting in the dark somewhere, the blue glow of a monitor shining on his face, his hand slipping beneath the open zip of his trousers._
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter earns the explicit rating, but you'll need to wait just a tiny bit longer to get to the mormor sexy-times.

Her name is Carmen, and she smells like freesia. She’s plump and sweet with dark skin and black-lined eyes. She thinks I’m broken, and she wants to heal me. 

She’s everything he’s not. And she feels fucking fantastic.

“Mi querido,” she sighs while she slips her hand into my trousers. _My dear_. The bass thump of house music reverberates through the brick wall behind me as Carmen sinks down to the ground. She makes quick work of my pants, wraps her hand around me, and takes me into her mouth. 

“Holy fuck.”

My canvas jacket catches as my legs buckle. I straighten up, lock my knees and groan. We’ve made our way out behind the club, doing dirty deeds next to a dirty gutter. It’s misting rain, and Carmen’s curly halo of hair reflects the glowing neon of shop signs and adverts high above.

I tell myself I’m not running away, but it’s a lie. If this were something I wanted for its own sake, it wouldn’t take everything I have to keep from picturing a certain dark-haired pretty-boy with his lips around my cock. If I were here, really here, I’d be able to meet Carmen’s open gaze rather than searching the skies for another reality.

**_Rain tonight/tomorrow … 22 degrees … 23:15 …_ **

A blinking LED sign scrolls on the next building over. Carmen moans and gives a lusty swirl, and my bollocks pull up high and tight. Lips pressed together, breath slow and heavy. I stroke my fingers into Carmen’s hair, and it’s okay that it’s not short, wiry locks I’ve got hold of. It’s good. She’s beautiful and warm and— _Oh fuck!—_ really fucking talented. My eyes roll back as Carmen strokes and sucks. This is going to be over embarrassingly fast if I don’t pull myself together.

**_NatBank … for all your banking needs … Rain tonight…_ **

I let my gaze go soft, turn my face up to the cloudy sky, and feel the mist fall cool against my skin as my breath comes out in shallow gasps. I fight the urge to fist her hair, pump my hips, take her hard and _now_. She’s a nice girl, not the kind that likes it rough. I may not be a nice man, but people don’t leave my bed complaining.

Instead, I give her shoulder a gentle tug. “Too much. Just give me a second.”

Carmen licks her lips and smiles as her hand takes over. “It’s okay. I’ll take care of you, mi querido.”

I look down, slide my hand over her cheek, smear my thumb across her bottom lip. She sticks her tongue out and sucks my thumb into her mouth. Jesus, that’s hot. Her tongue mimics the slick attentions of her hand—grip tight, twisting through each stroke. Her brown eyes are wide and unashamed, almost black here in the shadows. I picture another set of eyes—darker, not nearly so kind—and my head thumps back against the wall.

“Oh, fuck.”

**_22 degrees … 23:19 … Wet … Hot …_ **

I blink. Pull my thumb from Carmen’s mouth. She takes it as a request and slides her lips over me once again. My cock hits the back of her throat, and my hands scrabble at the wall. Everything goes black, eyes slammed closed and breath a gasping wheeze.

Oh God. Oh _God_.

With effort, I drag my lids open, grit my teeth and try to _focus_. I know I saw something, but that’s just, that’s—

**_Wet … Delicious … Gorgeous …_ **

That sign—what the hell? My body surges with a rush of chemicals, a dizzying urge toward fight or flight. Unseeing, Carmen runs a gentling hand over my hip as I scan the alley. It’s abandoned but for a few rubbish skips down the way. We’re alone. It could just be a glitch. Some programmer asshole fucking around.

**_Should have guessed you liked curves … She’s positively Rubenesque …_ **

That’s no glitch. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. I push down on Carmen’s shoulder, but she ignores me, carries on. 

**_Oh, no … Don’t stop on my account …_ **

Jesus, this is so wrong. I don’t know how, but someone is watching us—there’s no doubt. Someone with the ability to hack a cheap NatBank time and weather scroll. Not that hard, come to think of it. 

It’s invasive and creepy and spells danger any way I look at it. Still, I don’t do anything to halt Carmen’s progress. Honestly, I’m so fucking close, I’m not sure I could stop now if I wanted to. I keep my eyes open, half my attention on the constant red scroll, half on Carmen’s sweet mouth. My gaze alights on a small camera mounted on the building across the way, and the unseen audience responds.

**_Hi there … What a lovely cock you have …_ **

I can see him, hear his voice. I don’t know who’s behind this LED seduction, but I want it to be him. My god, I hope he’s watching.

**_You put on quite the show …_ **

I can’t help but smile. I like the idea of putting on a show for him. I can picture him watching me, sitting in the dark somewhere, the blue glow of a monitor shining on his face, his hand slipping beneath the open zip of his trousers.

**_Maybe you’ll grace me with a personal performance, pet …_ **

And with that single, familiar endearment, I’m done. I come hard, crying out as I pulse inside Carmen’s mouth. With no chance to warn her off, she splutters and coughs through her surprise but makes a valiant effort of seeing me through. 

Jesus, this girl.

“Up.” I haul her to standing none-too-gently. A flash of fear darkens her lovely eyes, but that’s okay—she’s not going to be afraid for long. 

“That was,” I murmur against the bitter salt of her mouth. “Fuck.”

I’m still riding out the aftershocks as I drop to my knees, ruck up her skirt, and tug her knickers down and off. With the plump swell of her hips in my grasp, I turn her just enough capture both the camera and the sign in the corner of my vision, push her thighs wide and open, and set my mouth to her dripping cunt. She cries out, bursting exclamations in a string of broken Spanish. Her hands dive to my head, fingers tugging. Eyes closed, head thrown back, she’s the picture of bliss. I look slantways, check to see what my audience has to say.

**_Oh my … I suppose turnabout is fair play …_ **

Carmen tastes sinful—spicy and slick—and her dark curls tickle my nose. I know this is wrong. This girl is exposed, vulnerable. Any decent guy would stop. But all I can think about are the eyes on the other side of that camera, and how very much I want them on me.

**_That’s nice … But why don’t you give the girl a hand? …_ **

So he’s giving direction now. Okay, I can work with that. I slip my hand between Carmen’s thighs, giving an experimental stroke before sliding two fingers in. She gasps, clenching around me, and I can’t help but chuckle.

“Dios mio,” she sighs and scratches her nails softly through my hair.

**_She’s awfully gentle … If it were me …_ **

I hold my breath, desperate to know the end of that thought.

**_I’d hold you down and fuck your mouth till you choked …_ **

My legs give, and I sink down, hugging her thigh, head planted against that plush expanse. 

 _Oh god. Oh Christ._  

I give myself half a second to recover, but that’s all. I’m not about to miss a single dirty word that plays across that screen.

**_Like that, would you? …_ **

Fingers still pumping inside Carmen’s slick center, thumb circling her clit, I set my eyes on the camera and nod.

**_Well, then … let’s see what we can do about that …_ **

I keep my gaze locked on the camera, trying to see him through the lens, hoping he can feel how very much I want that. 

**_Back to it, soldier … no rest for the wicked …_ **

I can almost hear his throaty chuckle, see his perverse amusement. Never one to ignore an order, I redouble my efforts on Carmen, and before long she’s howling and pulsing against me. I’m sure there’s some sort of exchange as we gather ourselves and get our clothes back in place, but honestly, I don’t remember a bit of it. All I see as I stumble through the drizzling London night is the afterimage of a flashing red sign:

 ** _Well done, pet … See you soon …_**  

****

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought.
> 
> And check out my tumblr, if you're so inclined: this-simple-mind.tumblr.com


	4. First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I shouldn’t enjoy this feeling. Shouldn’t be at ease with this man cutting through my every secret thought, every dark desire. But Mum always did say I wasn’t right in the head, and the truth is, I like the way he makes me bleed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **EDIT April 11, 2014:** Amazing artwork by goingbadly (http://goingbadly.tumblr.com/post/81937206004/fanart-and-review-pretty-psycho-boy-author)! She wrote a lovely review to go with the piece, and I've been all smiles since she shared it with me. Be sure to check out her fantastic fic on A03 under that same username.

[ ](http://s1063.photobucket.com/user/moirae13/media/Artwork/mormorfanart.png.html)

 

Three days later, I’m buying a shit cup of coffee and a dry sausage roll from the corner shop on the ground floor of my building when a text buzzes in my pocket. Unknown number. I know this before I even read the thing. Has to be unknown—this is a burner phone I bought when I got to town, and I can count the number of people who have these digits on a closed fist.

**_13 Royal Crescent 8:30pm._ **

It’s him. Clearly. Who else would it fucking be? I feel a surge of anticipation at the thought of seeing him again—a sudden, trembling cocaine buzz rushes through my blood and scrambles my brains. My palms itch. My mouth feels like a desert. I pocket the phone, knowing I’m not gonna glean any more insight by staring at the damn thing. The door chimes my exit. As I make my way back upstairs, I consider my breakfast, but it’s no good—it’s not what I’m hungry for. I bin the lot and spend the day cleaning my guns, thinking about Pretty-psycho-boy, and (unsuccessfully) fighting the urge to rub one out.

The sun’s been down for a few hours by the time my bus pulls up to the stop on Holland Park Avenue. Royal Crescent is one of those curving lanes of row houses overlooking a scraggly park. Royal Crescent Garden ain’t much, but it’s enough to designate the street as a moderately swanky holdout on the edge of Shepherd’s Bush.

I find him sitting on the stoop of number thirteen, elbows on knees, suit pressed, looking cool and clean. His eyes are on his phone, fingers flying. His focus doesn’t stray from his task when he speaks.

“Evening, Sebastian.”

I light up a fag, consider my words. Maybe they’re cheeky. Maybe respectful.

“Evening, Sir.”

Maybe a touch of both.

Reptile-fast, his deep-set eyes flick up. His mouth curves into something approximating a grin—but it’s a joyful smile in the same way _White Christmas_ is a happy holiday song. Like a scalpel slicing skin from muscle, his gaze opens me up. Suddenly, I’m short of breath, watching his tongue snake out to wet his lips. I’m back in the alley with Carmen’s mouth on my cock and his words in my head. I’m in my shithole flat, touching myself and thinking about red stains on a white shirtsleeve.  

And he’s reading me like the entrails of a dissected frog.

I shouldn’t enjoy this feeling. Shouldn’t be at ease with this man cutting through my every secret thought, every dark desire. But Mum always did say I wasn’t right in the head, and the truth is, I like the way he makes me bleed.

Still, it’s a relief when his head drops down—a breath between incisions. As his attention returns to his phone, I hover, waiting for instructions. They never come. Lacking any other direction, I take point and position myself a few feet away from him, facing the road. The quiet opens up all kinds of unsettling space in my head.

I thought maybe … well, I won’t say what I thought. Now that I’m here, it seems fucking ridiculous. I need to get my head on straight. I’m here for a fucking job, and whatever it is, I know it doesn’t involve mooning over the little maniac.

“Are you disappointed, pet?”

It’s been five minutes. I bet you twenty quid it’s eight-thirty on the nose. Pretty-psycho-boy tucks his phone into his pocket and stands, watching me expectantly. He’s on the bottom step while I’m on the pavement, and for the first time, our eyes are level. The street’s deserted, but he’s exposed here. Makes me nervous. I adjust our positions so he presents less of a target.

“About what?”

“You were hoping this was going to be a date, weren’t you?”

I bite down. The sandpaper grind of my teeth drowns out the more humiliating thoughts crowding my mind.

“Wasn’t hoping anything, Sir.”

His smile is all sugar and acid. 

“Liar,” he whispers, and it sounds like the exhale of some vicious beast.

I square my shoulders. It gives me another inch on him, but I still feel about as tall as a bug.

“You got a job for me, or am I gonna play babysitter on the stoop all night?”

Everything goes very quiet. Very still. He leans in, his breath slinking over my face, sweet and sinister. There’s nowhere to look but his sunken, black eyes. Even if he wasn’t in my face, it’s the only place I’d want to look—the man is a gravitational field. I wonder if he’s hiding a knife somewhere under that designer suit. If he’s packing his girly little piece. I tense as he reaches up to brush some imaginary lint from my shoulder. His fingers are so close to my exposed skin, I have to resist the urge to lean in, rub myself against him like a cat.

“You have quite a mouth on you, Sebastian. I’m going to enjoy teaching you to stop speaking out of turn.” 

Then he cups my cheek and rubs his thumb over my bottom lip, and my stomach plummets.

_Holy fuck._

It is not lost on me that this is the same move I used on Carmen—she was on her knees, lips wet from sucking me off, and I touched her in _exactly_ the same way. It feels like confirmation. A sign that he was there, watching me. Proof I’m not crazy.

I’m marble, a fucking statue. I have to be. Because if I move—if I so much as twitch—I’m tackling him to the ground and tearing his clothes off right here. I suspect that wouldn’t go over too well with the bossman. I know he’s messing with me. _I know this_. But fuck me if I’m not already as hard as a sailor in a whorehouse. Jesus Christ, I’ll be lucky to survive the night.

I shudder out an exhale as Pretty-psycho-boy steps back and releases my face. His lips curl up in a knowing smirk. 

“Since you’re so keen on taking _orders_ , yes, I do have a job for you.”

I have to clear my head. A stiffy and some half-baked hope isn’t going to save our asses if we get into trouble. I dig my nails into my palms hard as I can. The pain is a good distraction. Even better is Bossman’s no-bullshit expression.

“I need you to send a message. In here.” He nods towards the front door, then steps up to the landing and rings the buzzer. “Let’s make a game of it. I’ll talk with the people inside. When I’m done talking, you figure out what I want that message to be. Depending how you do, I’ll decide if I’m going to keep you around on a permanent basis. Sound good, darling?”

What else is there to say? 

“Alright.” 

“Be a good boy and you’ll get a treat. Disappoint me …” 

His face contorts into a cartoonish mock-frown, and the message is clear. I suppose if I lose his little game, there’s a good chance I won’t be seeing the sunrise. Ask me if I care.

_“Mr Silver?”_ squawks the intercom.

“That’s ri-ight,” Bossman intones in his familiar brogue. “Why don’t you buzz us up?”

Mr Silver. New name. Expensive suit. Irish accent.

They’re all clues. All part of the persona. What they mean, I haven’t the foggiest, but I better figure it out quick if I want to get this right. 

We climb a steep, winding staircase to the third floor. The door’s open; a university kid with unruly black corkscrews on his head and thick black specs on his face stands sentinel.

“Come on in, Mr Silver,” the kid says.

“Oh, call me John.”

“Okay … John.” There’s a nervous tremor in his voice as he sizes me up. “Is this Mr Moriarty?”

_Moriarty_. I’ve heard that name before. Bossman used it when we visited the Deutschland dry cleaner. Don’t know what to make of it, other than to see a pattern. Put together enough pieces, and the pattern becomes clearer.

Pretty-psycho-boy chuckles as we make our way inside. “No … this is my associate, Sebastian. Say hello, Sebby.”

_Sebby? Jesus fucking Christ_.

“Hello,” I grunt to the room.

Two other kids, no older than twenty, are lounging on a ratty couch and playing some soldier-of-fortune video game. Unwashed and indifferent, they don’t bother glancing up.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Specs asks. At least someone here has manners. 

“No, thank you,” Boss says. “We won’t be long.”

Whatever message I’m supposed to deliver, I’m not holding out much hope it’s gonna be pleasant for these guys. I make a casual pass through the space, checking blind corners, locating any other parties. Should things get messy, the last thing I need is some jerkwad hiding in the toilet, getting ideas about defending his turf with a plunger. Specs glances my way and shifts foot-to-foot. In general, I try not to draw too much attention to myself; don’t want to set the wrong tone. But there is an advantage to giving everyone here a subtle reminder of my purpose. 

The place is clean. It’s just the three of them, and once again, there’s not a criminal mastermind vibe coming from any of these kids. Bossman takes a seat in the least-disgusting of the armchairs, and I hang back. Let him get to business.

He nods, and Specs jumps to attention.

“So the newest pieces are done.” The kid grabs a thin manila folder from a rubbish-covered desk and passes it to him. “Xander worked on Lebanon, and I finished up Egypt and Serbia. We’re going to need a little more time on Turkey. Stricter documentation in the EU, you know.”

“All right.” Boss lays the folder on his lap, but makes no move to open it. He’s eyeing Specs with the kind of cool amusement that would leave me sweating, if I were a lesser man.

“Do you … do you want to look them over?”

“No.” Bossman pulls out a piece of gum and pops it in his mouth. “I don’t need to look.” 

Specs nods stupidly, though it’s clear he’s lost.

“Would you like to know why I don’t need to look?” he says, winding them up. That’s a setup if I ever heard one.

“Uh. You like our work?” Poor kid’s got no clue. 

I hold back a snort—remembering threats of “delicious new scars” for my face. But I can see where this is going. Boss isn’t hiding behind a costume or fake accent. The name, Silver, is the one they know him by, and sure, it’s probably fake. But this is him. Or as close to the real him as they’re ever going to get.

And that does not bode well for their chances of survival.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he shows this face all the time. And if I am, I’ll eat crow. But I don’t think I’m wrong.

“No.” Pretty-psycho-boy smiles, but it’s all twisted and grotesque—like some morbid Ribera portrait. “I don’t need to look,” he says, holding up the folder. “Because I’ve already seen these documents.”

Even the idiots on the couch can tell things are going sideways, and they sit up. Pause their game. Specs has gone real quiet, but I can see from the way his chest is heaving, he’s about two clicks away from a full-blown panic attack.

“An associate of mine showed them to me, and can you imagine my surprise?”

“Mr Silver, I don’t—”

“I told you to call me John.” Bossman’s smile is gone now, his amusement a distant memory. “I assured him there was _no way_ he could have what he claimed to have, because my boys, I said, _my boys_ would never. Think. Of sharing.”

Tweedledee and Tweedledum are glancing at each other uncertainly. They’re nervous, but not terrified like their friend. They still don’t see the writing on the wall. Probably figure the worst that will happen is they get dropped from the job. 

I’m glad I have my Bekizo blade strapped to my ankle. When things go south, I don’t want to fire a shot in a residential neighbourhood like this. Who knows if Boss has his car or not, and there’s no guarantee we could make it out clean before someone calls 999.

“You’re the smart one, aren’t you?” Bossman says to Specs. “It’s a shame you’ve chosen to associate with these mouth-breathers. Then again, perhaps I should have done a better job of vetting.” He stands. I position myself behind the couch and wait for the inevitable. “Oh, well. Live and learn.”

Specs is wheezing as Bossman moves to the front door.

“You know what’s going to happen next,” he says softly into Specs’ shoulder. “Mr Moriarty feels very strongly about betrayal.”

“No, Mr Silver, please. Xander just needed a second opinion—”

“It’s not a big deal,” says one of the wastes-of-space on the couch, talking over Specs. “I just wanted to check—”

“ _DID I SAY YOU COULD TALK?!”_  

For a moment, Bossman’s anger crowds into every corner of the room, a black cloud enveloping us all. He’s a man possessed—heaving and spitting—a figure of wrath and rage. Then, just as quickly, the storm dies, and there’s nothing left of it but a wisp of grey sky. 

“Rude,” he huffs and turns to me with a deep, calming breath. “All right, Sebastian, time to show me how clever you are. But you better move fast; this one’s getting antsy.”

Specs is indeed heading towards the kitchen in some misguided attempt to flee or procure a weapon. Either way, he’s dead before he has a chance to work it out—boneless lump on the ground, eyes open, glasses skewed, neck cracked. I pull my Bekizo from my ankle strap, and in a moment, the idiot twins both have fancy red smiles on their pasty necks.

Boss looks pleased, and I feel a warm surge of pride. Then he glances down with a frown, and I’m reminded of the average range and trajectory of arterial spray. Oh well, no one can be expected to receive perfect marks all the time.

“Ugh. You got Xander on my Westwood. That’s coming out of your pay.”

I nod and pull a fag from my pack. The filter is stained crimson, like my fingers. I bite down as the boss watches me light up.

I can’t help but smile.

And smile.

 

 

….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? Good first date for our criminal husbands? The next chapter will give you what you're waiting for (or what I've been waiting for, anyway). 
> 
> Extra-violent cuddles to anyone who leaves a comment. :P


	5. Crash and Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I come when you call. I kill for you, no questions asked. You say jump—I jump. You know everything about me … and I got a single contact in my phone, goes by the name of ‘Sir’.” I slide my tongue to the corner of my mouth, tasting blood. I’m not asking for much. Just a sign that I’m worth more to him than some Serbian stain on the concrete. “You ever gonna tell me your name?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take note of the new tags, my dears, for TRIGGER WARNINGS.

It’s been a few weeks now, and I’ve figured some things out. For one, there’s a larger network at play than I originally thought. Runners, drivers, cleaning crew, muscle (like me), wetworks (not nearly as good as me). Far as I can tell, I’m the only sharpshooter on the payroll, but as secretive as Bossman is, all that means is that I haven’t met another one _yet._ Some of his guys I’ve seen; some are just a voice on the phone or an anonymous bag-drop at my flat. Bossman likes to keep things separate, likes to move us around like little puppets on strings. Bit of a control freak, if you ask me. 

Most of what we do is straightforward: taking shit, moving shit, killing shit. Orders come down from on high, and I do what I’m told. I have yet to see him, but this Moriarty guy seems to have his fingers in all kinds of pies. He works high-stakes and low—from massive payoffs to jobs so small, they don’t even recoup the cost of labour. I’m plenty deep into the how of it all, but I haven’t sussed out the whys and wherefores just yet.

Basically, the guy’s indiscriminately shady. 

Still, there’s lots of stuff that doesn’t add up—the queer jobs that turn my head. The time Pretty-psycho-boy ordered me to whack some old biddy’s poodle. The thirteen live magpies I delivered to London’s premier opera singer. The night I snuck into a private lab and traded out blood samples and vials of infectious diseases for _different_ blood samples and infectious diseases. Mental stuff. Movie-villain stuff.

Pretty-psycho-boy is Moriarty’s right hand and keeps track of it all—the criminal empire and the nuthouse pranks. The thing is, the more I watch Bossman work, the more I’m starting to think there ain’t no wizard behind the curtain. 

“I gotta tell you, sir, I’m getting the feeling he’s a ghost.”

I’m on my knees, cleaning up my gear and tonguing the split at the corner of my mouth—one of those Serbian fuckers got in a solid hit before I took him down. The other boys on our crew have all gone, each of them carrying a black rubbish bag full of body parts with them. The boss is rummaging through a briefcase that used to belong to one of those sacks of meat. As soon as the warehouse was empty, he’d dropped the Cockney accent, but it’s not quite as easy to shed the gaudy orange tracksuit he’s wearing. It’s taken everything I have not to ask if the circus is in town.

“Stop being cryptic, Sebastian.”

Half a dozen spotlight bulbs shine high overhead, painting Pretty-psycho-boy’s face in sharp swaths of light and shadow. I can’t help comparing a face that expressive to some kind of artwork—right now, he’s got a serious Picasso vibe going on. And though his get-up is as subtle as a clown suit, the man still manages to be scary as fuck. The shit I’ve watched him do … well, let’s just say the idea that he might skin somebody ain’t exactly theory anymore. I figure a body could linger in the cold belly of in this warehouse for days, maybe weeks, before it was discovered. I guess if Bossman did decide to disappear me, the location would hardly matter, would it?

Point is, it’s a gamble, what I’m gonna say. I know, but I say it anyway.

“Everyone’s always talking about this guy, but we never see him. Anyone _that_ invisible with a myth _that_ big is either a tinfoil-hat whackjob or some made-up Keyser Söze bogeyman.”

Bossman shakes his head in warning, but I have a theory and I want to test it out. 

“It’s you, isn’t it? Moriarty.”

The briefcase clicks closed, and Bossman goes real still. He’s staring at some point in the distance, nostrils flaring, jaw hinging forwards into a frown. A smarter man would know to drop it—would have known never to bring it up. Maybe I’ve been hit on the head one too many times.

“Well, what am I supposed to think? Most of the people who see your face end up dead or in no condition to talk. ‘Moriarty’ is a whisper on the wind, and you got a million bullshit names you give out like free condoms at the clinic.”

Humbert. Silver. Sikes. Bateman. Why would a man need so many aliases? Why would he need them with me? He trusts me enough to watch his back, so why not trust me with his name? Unless that name is worth something. Unless it’s worth everything. 

“Sebastian…” 

“I come when you call. I kill for you, no questions asked. You say jump—I jump. You know _everything_ about me … and I got a single contact in my phone, goes by the name of ‘Sir’.” I slide my tongue to the corner of my mouth, tasting blood. I’m not asking for much. Just a sign that I’m worth more to him than some Serbian stain on the concrete. “You ever gonna tell me your name?”

His eyes glisten, lips curved in malice. I’ve come to love that smile—the crazy grin—the one that makes me feel like a bunny facing down a jaguar. It’s like bottled adrenaline. But right now, it’s making me see red.

“What do you think?” he murmurs, and I could rip that smug look off his face.

What do I think? I think I’m done. There’s something foreign and dark squirming under my skin, and it’s ready to _burst_. 

“How about I call you Pippi-fucking-Longstocking?” I shake my head, hands clenched tight, knuckles bloodless white. “But no, that wouldn’t fit the pattern, would it? What about Rasputin? Or Norman Bates? Tom Riddle?” I lift my bag just to feel the satisfaction of slamming it back down. “ _Come on_ , boss. _Long John Silver?_ Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” Anyone with half a brain could work it out—not that anyone besides me has. “I’m smarter than the thugs working your crew. Smarter than these fucking arseholes you have me taking out.”

He’s still as granite, expression just as hard. Fuck this. I pull the zip closed and start to get to my feet. The job’s done—dismissed or not, I’m leaving. Before I have a solid foot on the ground, he’s on me, fisting my hair with one hand and pressing the edge of something sharp and cold to my throat with the other. 

“Obviously not smart enough.”

The breath flies out of me in a whoosh, and I hold very, _very_ still. I am muscle and bone. I am exposed skin and a soft, pink belly. I’m a pig ready for the slaughter. 

What a fantastic turn of events.

Bossman’s eyes are shining coal, lit from within. He flexes, and there’s a brilliant flash of pain followed by a wet trickle pooling below my Adam’s apple. 

“I’ve told you about talking out of turn, Sebby. I did warn you.”

I’m trying to keep it together, really I am, but I can’t hide the relief I feel. I’ve been clenched so tight since the moment I laid eyes on the little fucker—a ball of tension, shivering and shaking—and now … now I can let go. I relax into his hold, feeling the delicious tug on my scalp as I submit. This is what I’ve been waiting for. This is why I pushed and pushed when I knew better, why I wouldn’t let it drop. This is what I’ve wanted all along.

Somewhere deep inside, buried under layers of gunpowder and Middle Eastern dust, there’s a kid with too many hours on his hands and not enough food in his belly. That kid—the one who picked his scabs until they scarred; the one who bit back a grin as Pop’s belt whistled through the air and connected with a crack; the one who flung insults at a pack of boys twice his size, just to see how much of a beating he could take—that kid is fucking squealing in glee.

I’ve let my attention wander, and Pretty-psycho-boy isn’t pleased. He gives my hair a vicious pull, pain radiating out from his grip—tingling and gorgeous.

“Am I boring you?”

I gasp as blood rushes to my prick, and a bit of insanity flashes across my mind: _How long do you suppose a corpse might maintain an erection?_ The controlled menace in Bossman’s expression slip-slides away. With a burst of understanding, he meets my gaze, wonder in his own.

“Oh, _pet_ , just look at you.”

I swallow hard, feeling the press of the blade against my throat. I want him to mark me, claim me. I want him to find my pressure points and dig in. I want … I want … 

_Fuck! I want everything from him._

I should probably be worried about how I’m going to keep myself alive, but all I can think about is how little space there is between us right now. He seems to read my mind, kicking my bag out of the way and nudging his shin right between my legs. I’m embarrassingly hard. He can feel it—he knows exactly what he’s done to me. This is either going to end very poorly or very, very well.

I think I know which way the wind is blowing when I hear the whisper of a smile in his words: “Oh, my.”

He leans down, his face drawing near, and for a crazy second I think he’s going to kiss me. _Jesus, isn’t that too good to be true?_ Instead he hovers close enough that I can taste his breath, warm on my face and mint leaf-sweet. Then his tongue snakes out, and I watch as he licks the cut in my lip—pink tongue stained red. His smile is nothing short of obscene as he pulls back and makes a show savouring his prize.

“Such a gorgeous mouth,” he whispers. “And you do rather love to run it, don’t you?” He readjusts his grip, poking the tip of the blade below my ear, just inside the hollow under the hinge of my jaw. “But I suppose that’s because you _want_ me to teach you a lesson. You’re just gagging for it, aren’t you, Sebby?”

The hold on my hair relaxes, and he slides his fingers across my scalp the way a man might stroke his dog. My eyes fall closed briefly, and a low moan comes unbidden from my throat.

“Maybe we just need to stuff that pretty mouth of yours so full, you have no room to lip off. Maybe that’s how I shut you up.”

Fuck. I haven’t been this close to losing it in my trousers since I was sixteen.

“Is that what you want?”

I give a slight, stupid nod, pinned in place by his knife. It’s not what he’s looking for. He shakes his head, tut-tutting as he rises to full height. I feel his reprimand in the pinch of his blade, another dribble of blood sliding down my neck.

“You can do better than that. _Tell me_. And say it nicely.”

I choke out a wheezy rasp, and Pretty-psycho-boy raises a brow. Ironic I should lose the ability to speak now. 

“I’m waiting …” he sings, Irish lilt full of warning. 

The blade is twitching against my jugular in time with the insistent pulse between my legs, but it isn’t that visceral threat that paralyses me. I mean, if we’re honest, I could neutralise him faster than you can say _trained-fucking-soldier_. No. What scares me—what terrifies the fuck out of me—is being this close to what I want and missing out because I can’t get my shit together to tell him.

The thing is, I follow orders. I do what I’m told. I don’t ask, and I don’t fucking beg.

Didn’t do a lot of things, before I met him.

“I want you to shut me up. _Please_.”

His expression flips shadow-to-sunshine, and I’m toppled by a surge of anticipation. 

“That’s all you had to say.”

If I’ve ever questioned the perfection of his god-awful tracksuit or its functional elastic waistband, I never will again. With a quick one-handed push, polyester trousers and cotton pants are rucked down to his thighs, his lovely cock bobbing and winking at me from a nest of dark curls. 

 _Oh my God, he’s gorgeous._  

Arms shaking and gravity failing me, I clutch his hips just to feel something solid in my hands. After weeks of wanting and waiting, touching him like this is a fucking revelation. His frame may be petite and fey, but there’s nothing innocent about him. He’s pure predator, lean and strong. Vicious. Beautiful.

My jaw falls open, drool gathering in the hollows of my cheeks. Heart pounding like machine-gun fire, mortar blasts going off in my head, I tip forwards in a slowdive.  

Savour the moment? I wish. Bossman’s got no patience for that. He snaps his hips, driving his cock into my mouth, choking off my air and silencing the noise in my head.

_Oh, Jesus. Oh, fuck._

I close my lips around him, tasting musk and salt. His pulse on my tongue. His groan in my ears. His knife clattering to the floor.

“Fuuuhhh …” he manages, through a throaty moan.

I smile, head bobbing, and look up. His eyes are squeezed shut, mouth slack and panting. He takes my skull in his hands, a slight pressure that allows me to lead—for a time. I’d like to say I’m pulling out all my usual tricks here, but really I’m running on instinct and desire. He makes me forget myself, makes me stop trying so fucking hard. I’m just here, touching him, tasting him, seeing his mask crumble in a way I suspect few ever get to. And it’s fucking perfect.

My trousers are getting tighter with each wet stroke of my mouth, but there’s nothing for it. His hips are my anchor, and there’s no way I’m letting go. Rocking my pelvis relieves some of the pressure, but it’s a trickle from a dam, and I resign myself to a drawn-out torture.

I let my mind drift, savouring the moment. All those nights alone, rubbing one out in my shitty flat and picturing a moment like this—none of them compare. Nothing in my imagination even comes close to the way he feels in my palms, the way he tastes, the way he sounds.

In my fantasies, I’d imagined him running at the mouth, giving instructions or spouting off just to hear his own voice. But it seems sex turns the boss non-verbal. I don’t mean he’s silent—his groans and sighs, his trembling whimpers and full-throated cries, echo into the warehouse, a debauched cacophony. It’s beautiful. I hum against him, try to match his frequency, and he gasps. His eyes fly open, locking on mine.

“Oh, _Seb_ ,” he says with some effort. “W-what a good boy.”

My skin flushes, toes to scalp. How can a few kind words from him turn me into a grinning schoolgirl? When did my life become a full-time mission to please him?

Who the fuck knows. Who the fuck cares.

When his hips shudder-hitch, I know he’s close. I can see the shift in his eyes, feel it in the air. His grip on my hair turns vicious, pulling strands from the roots just as he rips away my impression of control. He grins through a brutal thrust, laughing as I sputter and choke.

“Come on, pet. You can take it better than that.”

And I can. I know I can. He pulls back, pausing fractionally before driving forwards again. This time, I’m ready. Throat relaxed, I swallow around him until my nose is slammed into curls and easy breathing is just a memory. He carries on, pounding in and out of my mouth until my lungs are screaming in protest. My cock aches, my jaw hurts, and my thighs are trembling with the effort of keeping upright. I’m desperate, _desperate_ for relief. The truth of what’s happening here—let’s not be coy, Pretty-psycho-boy is fucking my face—has me so on-edge, I can feel it vibrating in my teeth.

Tears squeeze from the corners of my eyes, trailing down my cheeks and mingling with the grime and blood on my neck. I can’t imagine how I look to him. Debauched? Blissfully wrecked?

It doesn’t matter, because suddenly he’s coming and coming, thrusting deep and hard as he lets loose a beautiful howl. I swallow him down as he pulses, a bitter tang on my tongue. He’s still for a moment, and the sound of a satisfied hum settles in his chest. My scalp turns pins-and-needles where he releases his grip. He pulls away with a deep breath, leisurely righting his trousers while I wipe at my mouth with a shaking hand.

I’m throbbing, on the verge of a breakdown, ready to hump his leg if that’s what it takes. Like an afterthought, he glances down at my crotch, a cruel smile on his lips.

“Well, darling,” he says, patting my head like some kind of closing punctuation on the scene. “I suppose you’ll want to take care of that.”

Fuck me. Just. _Fuck._

An anxious shudder rocks through me as Bossman turns away and crosses the room. I mean, I didn’t expect him to return the favour, but I thought—

No, really? What the fuck did I think? He’d get me off? Hold me close while I came? Kiss me and cuddle afterward? 

I’m such a fucking moron.

Pretty-psycho-boy picks up the dead Serbian’s briefcase and smooths a hand through his hair. 

“One last thing, Sebastian.” He turns, pinning me with a cold, black gaze. “You seem to be under the impression that you’re special. Let me disabuse you of that notion. You’re not special—you’re nothing.”

My stomach plummets. I think I’m going to be sick. He steps close, brushing his fingertips along my blood-stained neck. Even now, I can’t help but lean into his touch. I hate myself for that.

“You do what I say, and I pay you handsomely. I don’t owe you anything, pet. Got it?”

I swallow down a lump of bile. Grit my teeth.

“Yes, sir.”

Then he’s sweeping out of the warehouse, the cacophonous sound of his absence echoing in my ears. 

 

 

….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, go to my betas, Darcysmom and Marly580, for their polish and shine. Remaining mistakes are, of course, mine.
> 
> And did you take a gander at goingbadly's fanart/review of _Pretty-psycho-boy_?! http://goingbadly.tumblr.com/post/81937206004/fanart-and-review-pretty-psycho-boy-author
> 
> Her art captured a moment from chapter 4 absolutely perfectly, and her review made me blush. You can check out her brilliant fanfic here: http://archiveofourown.org/users/goingbadly/pseuds/goingbadly
> 
> Finally, I did an outline for this story and I _think_ we'll end up with about 15 chapters. That's a really rough count—you know how these things can balloon. But I'm guessing the story I need to tell will end up somewhere between 30-40k.
> 
> Let me know what you thought, my dears!


	6. French Boys Have All the Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He kept silent, day after day, knowing how much it would hurt me. How I’d clutch my phone like a life preserver, willing it to ring. How I’d consider pulling a few jobs of my own, just to do _something, anything_. How the world would start to look dim and beige after spending so much time bathed in glorious charcoal and crimson.

Radio silence.

No texts. No calls. No mysterious messages in the sky.

Chain smoking and plowing through every tattered paperback I own lose their appeal about two days in. To switch things up, I head to the library and check out some books Bossman used as inspiration for his aliases: _Lolita, Treasure Island, Oliver Twist, American Psycho_ (I roll my eyes, remembering the first time I picked up on it. Literary villains. He’s so fucking dramatic, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a dungeon aquarium full of sharks). I’ve already read them all, but it doesn’t matter—it’s something to do. And maybe if I’m imagining him turning these same pages, well … okay, yeah. Even I can see how bad I’ve got it.

By day four, the takeaway littering my coffee table is starting to form colonies, but I can’t be arsed to do anything about it. When the rats show up to investigate, I use them for target practise. It’s not sporting, I know, throwing from this distance, but I manage to stick ten out of ten before the rest figure out this place is hazardous to their health. At least I’ve silenced the incessant nighttime scuttling.

With a bit of luck, on day five I come across a Kurosawa marathon on the telly, and that kills a solid afternoon. Still, it’s not enough to pull me out of what’s shaping up to be an epic funk; even the death-by-hundred-arrows scene at the end of _Throne of Blood_ leaves me cold.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not actually worried. It’s not unusual to go days at a time without hearing from the Bossman. This little hiatus isn’t anything new.

 _Liar,_ says a voice in my head that eerily resembles his. _You are worried, Sebby. Admit it. You’re getting ve-ry nervous._

 _“_ Fuck you _.”_  

Great. Not only is the fucker taunting me in my head, but I’m actually responding to him. That’s just stellar.

 _Well, we tried that, didn’t we?_ he purrs. _And you were rather the one to get fucked, as I recall._

I’m not doing this. I’m not cracking up without a fight.

“Fuck off. You can just fuck the fuck off.”

To my great surprise, he does. But as the days drag on and the silence with it, I start to miss even his imaginary mockery. 

A few glasses of Dewar’s close out my days and help sleep come. A cup or two of espresso brings me back to life. Take a walk. Pick at the peeling wallpaper. Ignore the heavy stone in my gut growing heavier with each passing day. Lather, rinse, repeat.

 _Maybe he’s punishing me._  

It’s late. Quiet hours broken by the alley cats howling outside my window and desperate thoughts prowling through my head.

_Maybe he’s done with me. Maybe I should be done with this whole thing._

Next morning, I unload my guns and lock up my ammo. For the best, with thoughts like that worming around.

Just about the time the walls start to close in on me, I get a text summoning me to The Four Seasons at noon. _Wear a suit_ , he says.

It’s like I’ve been living in a vacuum—bloated and purple as I suffocate—and suddenly the air is pouring in. I scramble to my feet, gasping, can’t move fast enough. The clock says I can just manage a much-needed clean-up before I have to catch the Tube, so I dart to the loo. 

_Fucker sure does like to cut it close. I suppose he hasn’t considered I might have other plans._

A hysterical, high-pitched cackle bursts out of me, buffeting the barren walls and sounding strange in my ears. It cuts out in a relieved sob. _Yeah, okay,_ I decide. _No more laughing_.

It’s hard to shake off the inaction of the past two weeks, but a scalding-hot shower helps. Gets rid of my stench and leaves me buzzing—ready to hit something, ready to kill something. I’m geared up and out the door in record time. I’m not worried about seeing him after our little warehouse scene. Anyone who does this job (and wants to live long enough to _keep_ doing it) has a solid understanding of how to compartmentalise. Be a professional. Tuck that shit away and carry on, my son. Honestly, I’m just so fucking happy to get out of the flat, I don’t care what kind of humiliation I’m going to have to endure as penance.

He’s waiting for me as I approach the hotel’s taxi entrance. I’m trying not to bounce, but there’s a lightness to my step I can’t disguise. He plucks the cigarette from my mouth and takes a drag.

“Sure,” I grumble, though it lacks bite. “Go ahead.” 

My frustration is a farce. I’m more annoyed that I’m _not_ annoyed. 

“You should try to cut down, Seb.” Twin trails of smoke stream out of his nose. “It’s a disgusting habit.”

“Yeah, well, so is taking shit that doesn’t belong to you.”

He leers, clamping the fag between his teeth, and my legs go wobbly. He doesn’t even have to try, you know? He’s pure, walking sex. I need some better fucking defences.

Another exhale and he drops the butt to the pavement, stamping it out. It wasn’t even halfway gone, the bastard.

“Yes, but possession is relative, pet. What is there of yours that doesn’t already belong to me?”

It suddenly occurs to me that “pet” isn’t just some throwaway endearment—it carries its own weighty subtext. Implies ownership. Of me. My things, my talent, my body. 

 _Does he? Does he own me?_  

All I have to do is remember a fraction of the clawing desperation I’ve felt these past weeks without his company, and I have my answer. At first I thought he was giving me space, letting me work through my own shit. But no. After a few days of nothing but me and my thoughts, I realised the truth. He did it to teach me a lesson. He was going to make sure I knew what I’d be facing if I decided I’d had enough of him, if I was considering calling it quits.

He kept silent, day after day, knowing how much it would hurt me. How I’d clutch my phone like a life preserver, willing it to ring. How I’d consider pulling a few jobs of my own, just to do _something, anything._ How the world would start to look dim and beige after spending so much time bathed in glorious charcoal and crimson. 

Well, it worked. As much of an evil bastard as he is, there’s no denying it. I belong to him. Maybe I’m nothing, like he said. Then again, at least he cares enough to keep me around. 

Not much time to let that thought settle before he turns and draws us through the hotel’s revolving doors.

“You were in Algiers in ’07, yes? How’s your French?”

“Passable.” I’m not surprised at this point by his encyclopedic knowledge of my past. “But nobody in the know would take me for a native speaker.”

He waves his hand. “Fine—this idiot won’t know the difference. Don’t speak unless spoken to. And try to keep up.”

“Always do,” I murmur as we pass through the lobby, and Bossman turns to give me a wink. When his back is turned, I shake out the flutter in my hands and swallow down my pooling saliva. _Christ_.

He makes his way toward Amaranto, the hotel’s overpriced white-linen eatery. Arseholes and wannabe-arseholes turn to look as the hostess leads us through the dining area. A few people fail to hide their surprise. Even in a suit, there’s nothing I can do to make a face like mine fit into a place like this. The room is half bordello, half Queen’s tearoom—made up like a high-class hooker with swaths of red velvet against prissy sets of Victorian china. We’re seated in the back corner, an isolated spot with good sightlines. I wonder if Bossman requested this table, or if it’s just chance. Either way, I’m glad I won’t have to strain my neck to keep the room clear.

It isn’t two minutes before our guest arrives, an executive-type with a new pair of Ferragamo shoes and an obvious hairpiece. He flashes a set of straight, white teeth—the kind you only see on American telly. 

“Mr Longstocking, I assume.” He takes Bossman’s hand. “And is this—?” His words choke off, eyes going wide as he gets a good look at my scars.

“This is Monsieur Moriarty, oui,” Bossman says in a slimy French accent.

Jesus Christ. So he’s playing _Longstocking_ and I’m _Moriarty_?

 _What the actual fuck_. 

It’s clear he’s messing with me—throwing that little Pippi jab back in my face—but I can’t tell if it’s the endearing, flirty kind of fuckery or the dangerous kind. Either way, it’s amusing as hell, and I work to keep a straight face as I shake the client’s hand. 

Bossman nods in deference to me—and shit, does that feel weird—then introduces our guest in a mixture of English and French. “This is Ambassador Newman, notre partenaire sur le projet de Cassandra. Our partner on the Cassandra Project.”

I nod, not having been given permission to speak, and we take our seats. Newman’s gaze hovers near my shoulder. Soft men like him don’t know what to do when faced with evidence of real violence. Bet the closest he’s ever come to a fight are the ones he watches on Pay-Per-View.

“I appreciate you coming to see me in person, Mr Moriarty. It’s a rare treat, as I understand.”

My first impression was right; he’s all Yank. New York public school—or do they call it “private” in the States? Whatever. He’s a silver-spoon arsehole. The mocking way he says “rare treat” tells me all I need to know.

“Monsieur Moriarty would like to apologise; English is not his first language. I will be happy to translate for you.” Bossman turns to me and says, “Votre costume, c’est de la merde.”

I’m rusty, but I think he just said my suit is a piece of shit. O-kay.

He continues in flawless French: “J’ai un tailleur fantastique en ville; nous allons vous transformer en quelque chose de potable. Maintenant dites quelque chose, que cet imbecile ne perde pas son calme.”

Jesus, he’s good. No matter how many times I see it in action, it’s always a bit of a shock to watch him put on a character. Could have been an amazing actor in another life. Mild, unthreatening smile on his lips, hands folded together and resting on the table, brows raised attentively, he awaits my response as the perfect translator-slash-assistant.

Shit. Right. What did he say?

I think he just offered to buy me a suit—no, he’s going to take me to his personal tailor. Have me fitted. And … oh, fuck. I’m supposed to say something now. Okay. I pull my best haughty Frenchman face and turn to address our guest.

“J’ai aucun besoin vêtements chic.”

I’m hoping that came out something like, _I don’t have much cause to wear expensive suits_ _,_ but it’s probably closer to, _I no need pretty clothes_.

“Aussi,” I continue, “pas de place masquer pistolet dans des tenues que vous mettez sur—sauf si je commence effectuer arme féminine de trop.”

_Also, no place to hide a gun under the tight-ass suits you wear—unless I’m going to start carrying a girly piece, too._

His eyes shine with menace, but Bossman doesn’t miss a beat in conveying my supposed message to Newman. 

“Monsieur Moriarty says you’re very welcome. He’s happy to meet with such an important dignitary if it means ensuring the success of this project.”

“Of course. Well, let’s order a round and get down to business, shall we?”

It’s all Pretty-pschyo-boy who “translates” this last. Serene smile in place, peaches and cream voice.

 _“_ _You weren’t complaining about the size of my “piece” during our little lesson, but I’m always happy to provide a refresher course, if you need it._ _”_

If I was under the impression our time in the warehouse was forgotten, I’m under no such illusion any more. My cheeks burn as I move my napkin to my lap. _Jesus Christ, this is going to be a long afternoon._

Things carry on much the same through drinks and a round of rabbit-food appetisers. Papers are exchanged, plans made. Bossman and I chat in French while he runs a different show with the Yank. It’s actually the longest-running conversation we’ve had—kind of intimate, in a messed-up way. Of course, by the end he’s made a game of trying to throw me off, describing near-impossible sex acts he’d like to try out, while I’m choking on my tuna carpaccio. 

The stuff coming out of his mouth … let’s just say, if Newman is a secret francophone, he has the best poker face in history.

Business finished, I button my jacket closed as we stand to say our goodbyes. Even so, there’s no hiding the obvious bulge in my trousers. Bossman makes no comment, but from his barely restrained glee, it’s clear he’s seen it. He’s perilously close to dropping character, but the American is oblivious as he strolls away, scratching at his hairline.

“I had no idea French was such a turn-on for you, Sebastian. Too bad yours is atrocious, or we might use it more often.”

It’s harder somehow to say what I’m thinking, now that we’ve dropped the act. The coded language and the intrusive audience provided a safety net that’s suddenly gone. I want to say something flirtatious. I want to press his buttons. But all I can manage is a tight nod.

“That all for today?”

Bossman huffs, the warm glow of his expression gone icy-cold. “I suppose—if you’re so eager to leave.” 

He flicks his hand, dismissing me, and my stomach clenches. I feel like I’ve missed a huge opportunity. Like I’ve hurled opportunity off a moving train.

“Right.”

 _Shit. Shit_. _Salvage this,_ I tell myself. _Salvage this!_

My tongue’s gone dry, sitting heavy and sluggish in my mouth. I’m too slow, too thick. Pretty-psycho-boy would know what to say—he always knows what to say—but I’m cotton-headed and blank.

“Boss …”

Eyes on his phone, fingers tapping away, I’ve lost him. He’s already moved on.

I give it one last desperate try—“So I’ll see you around?”—but for all he cares, I might as well be a stranger off the street. He hums absently, and I linger while an annoyed server clears the empty glasses and dirty plates from our table.

There’s nothing more to say.

I wander towards the exit, knowing it could be weeks before he gets in touch and itching at the thought. Then I hear his parting missive from behind, and I breathe a grateful sigh.

“Au revoir, Sebastian.”

 

….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been traveling this week, but managed to get this baby finished anyway! Hope you guys enjoyed it. Thank you, as always to darcysmom and marly580 for cleaning this puppy up. 
> 
> Special thanks to pieofthelord (pieofthelord.tumblr.com) for assisting with the French in this chapter and for her fantastic bit of fanart, which you can see here: (http://this-simple-mind.tumblr.com/post/82738538640/i-come-when-you-call-i-kill-for-you-no). She deserves huge hugs!
> 
> There have been some questions about a posting schedule, and while I can't commit to posting on a specific day, my aim is to get chapters out within two weeks (or less). That's a reasonable pace for getting the chapter where I want, giving my betas time to look it over, and not driving myself crazy or (feeling guilty for failing to meet a shorter deadline). I managed it a few days sooner this time around, so lets hope the trend continues. Please, please let me know what you thought. Comments are author-crack and fuel my fire.
> 
> xoxo,  
> s


	7. Okay, Tiger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It occurs to me now, perhaps belatedly, that these are not the actions of a man who thinks I’m “nothing.” It occurs to me, as I sit here in a puddle of my own drool, exposed and ripe for the taking, that these are the actions of a man who thinks I am very much something. A man who would, of course, never admit it._
> 
> _But if you’re a psychopath with a more-than-passing affection for your hired gun—and an unwillingness to cop to it—this may seem like a perfectly appropriate way to bring the relationship to the next level._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****Please pay attention to all tags and WARNINGS****
> 
>  
> 
>  This one goes to some rough places, guys, so if you have any strong feelings about the things in my tags, take a moment to consider whether you want to read on.
> 
>  
> 
> The lovely Ellery has done it again. Check out her amazing fan art: http://goingbadly.tumblr.com/post/83877627636/jespere-que-vous-parlez-francais-parce-que-vous
> 
> And Maëlibé and I have been up to some foolishness. Psycho boy-inspired art and drabble can be found here: http://this-simple-mind.tumblr.com/post/84460267064/this-simple-mind-pieofthelord

“Get you another one there, Killer?”

I nod, and Steph fills my glass. 

“You’re looking better.” She tucks the bottle away and swipes at the counter with a grimy rag. “It was pretty touch-and-go for a couple weeks there.”

I grunt, and the barmaid takes it as an invitation to carry on.

“But you’re clean and dressed. Don’t smell like day-old takeaway. Look so nice, I’d even consider bringing you home with me, Killer.”

“Don’t get a guy’s hopes up, Steph. We both know you’re too good for me.”

She laughs and shakes her head, moving down to check on the permanent fixtures nursing their pints at the other end of the bar. 

As barkeeps go, Steph is up there. I don’t have to tell her my brand or signal when I’m ready to close out my tab. She knows. Knows my drink. Knows I’m not looking for conversation. That doesn’t always keep her from chatting, of course, but at least she’s clever enough not to expect much of a response. Guess I’ve become a regular—even have my own nickname. 

“Look at you, lady-killer,” she said the first time she saw me turn down the advances of a cougar on the prowl (an experience that, unfortunately, has become all too familiar). “I think she wanted to ride your pole.”

I think Steph only teases because I’ve never let _her_ ride my pole. She’s nice enough—better than nice, really. Dark skin, almond eyes, easy laugh. I could take her home, have a good time. But then I’d have to find a new neighbourhood pub, and I like this one. Fond memories, you know.

“If I didn’t know better,” says a familiar voice from behind. “I’d say you’re rather sentimental, Sebastian.” 

Speaking of fond memories.

“Isn’t this where we met?” Bossman sidles up to the stool next to me and orders a brandy. He means the alley behind this dive—the place they found Eddie’s body—but close enough.

“You know Killer, huh? Didn’t suppose he had any friends.” Steph winks as she sets a clean glass on a napkin and pours. I wonder how Bossman is going to take that.

“You want to know what’s _really_ strange?” he says in a faux-intimate gasp. “I call him Killer, too. Must be something about him.” Whip-quick, Bossman cups my chin and tugs until I’m teetering on my stool and we’re nose to nose. 

Men don’t generally get touchy-feely with other men in this joint, and I can feel a ripple of tension work through the room. Aggressive as he is, maybe it looks like the boss is going to hit me. Close as he is to my mouth, maybe it looks like he’s going to kiss me. After my tongue-tied fuck up at The Four Seasons this afternoon, I’d be pretty happy with both scenarios.  

Instead of either hitting or kissing me, he releases my chin and strokes his fingertips down the scar on my cheek, then across another one opposite, on my eye. A shiver works its way up my spine, forcing my breath out in a whoosh. I wonder if he can smell the whiskey on my lips. I wonder how he tastes. 

“This face has seen things,” he whispers in that lovely lilt of his. “Terrible things. Wonderful things.” 

Steph startles as Bossman turns his black eyes on her. 

“Isn’t he just a glorious ruin of a man?”

She swallows hard, trying to come up with some response. The girl’s smart, I’ll give her that. Smells danger better than most. People see this petite package, hear that soft voice, and they think they got him pegged. Some harmless Irish sissy. Some gutless poof. Fuck, that’s what I thought until he pulled out his Tomcat and shot Eddie’s day all to hell. But I can see it in Steph’s tight smile, the way she’s pressing herself into the clanking bottles of liquor lining the back wall. She knows there’s nothing safe—or sane—about the man.

“I take it this ain’t a social call,” I say, and just like that, the heat’s off Steph and back on me.

“Always so eager to get back to work, Sebby. You can be such a bore.” He sighs, glancing down at the bar. “Here we are, having a nice little chat with your friend … and all you want to talk about is _the job_.”

He gestures to Steph with a quick, two-fingered come-hither command, and her eyes flick to me for help. I don’t know what she’s looking for—not like I know what he’s going to do. Not like I have any control over the bastard at all.

“Oh, it’s all right, darling,” he sighs, full of mock exasperation.

She hesitates but steps closer. Bossman leans in, holding out a hundred-pound note like a worm on a hook. 

“For the tab.”

Just as she’s about to take it, he snatches it out of reach, clamping a hand around her wrist instead. She winces, tugging against his grip, and his brandy goes sloshing across the bar.

“Hey!”

“Shh … come here.”

Try as she might to free herself, he’s not letting go. Deliberate and slow—and brave as fuck—she leans in, jaw tight, hands clenched. 

“That’s right. It’s okay.” 

I keep watch for any laggard heroes, but these cowards are all lost in their pints. Sorta wish someone would stand up for her. Jesus, what a sad bunch of shits.

“I just want to assure you,” he breathes against her hair. “I’ll have him back to you no worse for the wear.” His eyes are on me, unreadable in the dim light. “Right, Killer? You always come home good as new?”

I huff. Shrug.

I don’t get this game. Scaring some nobody girl to—what? Just to fuck with her? To fuck with me? What ’s the point? Unless … 

_No._

_I mean, it’s not like Steph and I have done anything besides flirt a little. There’s no fucking way he’s_ **_jealous_ ** _, is there?_

“Whatever, boss. She don’t care how I come back. She’s just some bint that pours my drinks.”

“Is that so?”

Steph’s starting to tear up; I can hear her sniveling. I’d feel bad if … well, if I ever felt bad.

“Look, I don’t know what you—”

“Hush, poppet,” Bossman says, cutting off her broken plea. “Daddy’s done talking to you.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth, the air hissing as it passes between his lips. “I’m talking to you, Sebastian. How would you like to come back? All in one piece? All pretty and clean?”

There’s no doubt in my mind he’s weighing the quality of my answer damn heavily. I finish off my drink in a gulp and set the glass on the bar with a muted thud. It’s simple, really.

“However you want, sir.”

“Right.” His smile blossoms, beady eyes twinkling. “However I want. Ve-ry good.”

The way he’s looking at me, I feel like a kid who just got top marks on his A-levels. 

Bossman releases Steph, and she jumps back, rubbing her wrist like she’s been burned. He hops off the stool with a satisfied giggle and drops the hundred quid on the bar.

“Come along, _Killer_. Like you said, we’ve a job to do.”

Steph glares as I get to my feet, and I shrug. Looks like I’m going to have to find a new pub, after all.

…

The job, it turns out, is meeting some lowlife runner’s face with my fists. He’s a bleeder, for sure—I’ve ruined another shirt. We’re holed up in a mid-level hotel not too far from my place (What is it with hotels today?). Bossman drove, giddy as a kid on Christmas Eve, bouncing and singing along to horrible disco tunes all the way here. I don’t see why he’s so happy—we got a dickhead tied to a chair, keeps babbling the same bullshit over and over. 

“Some guy … the scum brought in some guy. Some private detective or something.”

Well, that’s a steaming pile if I ever heard one. You don’t need an inside man to know the cops don’t hire private detectives. I give him a little tap to the gut to encourage a more honest discourse.

Bleeder coughs, fights for breath. “Please—I ain’t lying,” he wheezes. “Beatrice panicked … said she talked to this guy. Tall, curly hair. Real arse. Says he knew everything about her. Knew about the drugs. She wasn’t taking any chances. Had to dump it all.”

Bossman is behind me, rummaging through his briefcase. Don’t know what he’s got in there, but I’m suspecting Bleeder ain’t gonna like it.

“And did Beatrice get a name?”

“Dunno,” the whelp says. “Something strange. Old-fashioned. Sherwood? Sherlock?”

“All right. I’ve heard enough.” He passes me a roll of duct tape. “Shut this up.”

I do as asked, wrapping a strip of tape around the back of the kid’s head and across his mouth. As I smooth it down, I’m considering what the next steps are. If Bossman wants me to make it quick, we should call the cleaning crew now. If he wants it painful, I guess we have time. 

Just as I’m about to ask, I feel a prick in my neck, a sharp sting. I smack away the syringe in Pretty-psycho-boy’s hand, but it’s too late. Whatever the fucker just stuck me with is starting to have an effect. I turn and stagger a few steps, vision gone kaleidoscope-crazy as I grasp onto Bossman’s lapels.

“Wha—?”

But my tongue works about as well as my hands—which is not at all. So here I am, feeling like the biggest fucking tool in the world as I groan and tumble down to my knees.

I knew this day would come; it was always in the cards. It’s just sooner than I imagined—I thought I had more time. A desperate panic lodges in my chest, and I flap my gummy lips to try to ask him, to try to figure it out.

_What did I do? How did I fail you?_

All that comes out is a slobbery moan.

“Sleep, Killer. Have a little rest.”

Bossman looks … _Jesus_. He almost looks remorseful. That expression is so wrong on him. Doesn’t suit his face at all.

 _Stop that_ , I want to say. _Don’t let this be the last thing I see. At least enjoy it, you fuck._

But my legs have given out and my eyelids feel like they have weights sewn into them. I fall to the carpet with a thud and know no more.

…

The first thing I notice is the pounding in my head. With the pain comes the realisation that I am not, in fact, dead. Good on me. On later reflection, I’ll come to see there are perhaps worse things than death, but for now, relief is trumping solid reasoning.

Other discoveries come in quick succession—a tumbling series of ah-ha moments that pile up like fast-falling snow and crash down on me in an avalanche.

Darkness is next, after the ache in my head and appreciation for my non-demise. I open my eyes and see a black expanse, feel my lashes swipe against fabric. Blindfold, then. Okay, this just gets better and better. I try to speak, but my lips are pulled back in a grimace, teeth and tongue pressed against something spherical and hard. I jerk, panic setting in at last, but that doesn’t get me too far. Face planted in the mattress, arms tugged above my head, cold metal on my wrists. _Naked_. Propped up on my knees, stance wide.

And, oh yeah. That’s a fucking tongue in my arse.

_What the fuck?_

I pull at my restraints and shout, but the cuffs are secure—attached to a headboard?—and the ball-gag in my mouth is cutting off everything but a stream of drool sliding down my chin. I try to squirm away, try to press my legs together, but they won’t move, and I recognise the feel of a spreader bar strapped to my thighs.

And that’s when my situation really hits home.

_Oh, fuck. Ohfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck._

“Don’t tense up now—you’ll ruin all my hard work.”

That voice, if you can believe it—that arrogant purr—is just about the only thing that could temper the crash of adrenaline jamming my systems right about now. There is no reason to trust him. _Absolutely no fucking reason_. But if anyone is going to have me trussed up and tied to a bed, tongue-fucking me without my say-so, I’d want it to be him. The greatest tragedy in this situation—and the fact that thisis even a consideration shows how royally fucked up I am—is that I got nothing to call him but Bossman or Pretty-psycho-boy. Of all the times to know someone’s name, this seems like the one.

Bossman dips back down and shares a thorough get-to-know-you with parts of mine that don’t see much daylight, and from the back of my throat comes a decidedly unmasculine squeak. 

It’s a funny thing when your body rejects the course of your mind. Like right now, you’d think I’d be doing everything in my power to get him off me, to work my way out of these cuffs and off this bed, right? But, no. That’s the conscious brain—the higher-level reasoning. My lizard brain? The one that’s attached directly to all my eat-fuck-kill impulses? The one I maybe indulge a little too much? That one’s too busy enjoying the particular attentions of Bossman’s tongue, too blinded by the hair-trigger-sensitive nerve endings currently singing their pleasure, to care much for escape.

Let me just pause here to question who would have ever pegged a man that fastidious for an expert in the age-old art of rim jobs? Not-fucking-me. But he has a talent, for sure.

Time stretches out in strange ways when there’s nothing to mark it by. Just like touch is heightened when there’s nothing to see. So I don’t know how long he goes at it, but I can tell you, I’m a slobbering mess, a jelly-limbed wreck by the time he’s done.

I shiver as Pretty-psycho-boy slides his tongue up to the base of my spine. His hands work counter, stroking down over my arse and along the back of my thighs. I lean into his touch, skin tingling and fine hairs standing at attention.

“I suppose you have questions, darling,” he mouths wetly against my back.

 _Fuck right I do, you prick_.

I wish my inarticulate grunts carried half the intensity of the voice in my head. But it’s a feeble attempt—worse than feeble, really—and I can’t entirely blame it on the lingering effects of the drugs.

“You’ll just have to learn to live with disappointment, I’m afraid.”

He slaps my left arsecheek. Quick. Hard. And my cock gives an eager little jump.

“I realise this is all a bit excessive.” The bed shifts as he sits up, and I feel a stupid longing for his absent mouth. “But I desperately wanted the full experience, and I didn’t want you getting away. Didn’t want you lashing out. You’re very resourceful … I know.”

He presses a hand to my spine, teasing the inside of my thigh with the other. I suck in a sharp breath as he slips between my legs, cups my bollocks, and squeezes. 

“Ungh …”

His grip is brutal, the pressure just this side of painful, and my instincts waver between pushing into his touch and pulling away.

“You’ve been so hot and cold, Seb. So bafflingly shy. I had such a lovely day planned for us at the Four Seasons, a gorgeous suite—masses et les masses de plaisir—but you had to go and ruin it.” He gives a final squeeze, scolding me.

_Oodles and oodles of fun, huh? Not sure we have the same definition of that._

For as frank as he’s being now, I wish he’d been a bit more clear about his intentions before. I mean, Mr Bipolar wants to talk about hot and cold? Maybe I didn’t need anything as formal as a handwritten invitation, but waking up to a tongue in your arse seems like an extreme form of courtship.

I joke—mainly because I’m still halfway convinced this is going to end with me dead, and I can’t resist a bit of gallows humour. But really, there’s not a piece of me that’s pulling away here. I’m straining towards … _something_ … Straining towards the idea of more. Straining towards his heat. This is sick and dangerous and so very wrong, but when the fuck has that ever stopped me from getting off?

Bossman’s shifted his hand forwards, arm wedged between me and the spreader bar. He teases my prick—scraping his nails along the underside of my shaft—and I think I might cry. I’m shaking, trying to rock into him, but my movement is limited. Thankfully, his cruelty does have bounds, and I gasp my relief as he takes me in hand. 

_Oh, my God._

_Oh, MY GOD._

How many times have I imagined this? How many times have I craved his touch? I’m trying to make sense of it all, but there’s no sense to be made. There’s nothing to do but listen to the soothing rhythm of his voice, feel the easy slide of his hand. 

“My little worker bee.” Stroke. “So focused.” Stroke. “So serious.” Stroke. “Well, darling, I’m ready for some fun.”

It occurs to me now, perhaps belatedly, that these are not the actions of a man who thinks I’m “nothing.” It occurs to me, as I sit here in a puddle of my own drool, exposed and ripe for the taking, that these are the actions of a man who thinks I am very much something. A man who would, of course, never admit it.

But if you’re a psychopath with a more-than-passing affection for your hired gun—and an unwillingness to cop to it—this may seem like a perfectly appropriate way to bring the relationship to the next level.

I sigh as Bossman bids farewell to my cock. He pinches my arse and gives it a playful slap. If he’s trying to keep me off balance, it’s fucking working.

His hands are gone, but I can feel him moving behind me, humming wordlessly. It’s okay. He’s not done. He’s not going to leave me here like this. There’s a panicked flutter in my gut as I consider the possibility that he _might_ just fucking leave me here. Then he rests the tip of a slick finger where his tongue once was, teasing in a leisurely circle, and I sigh my relief.

He mistakes my sound for distress.

“Shhh … it’s okay.” 

Yes. _Yes_. Everything’s going to be okay. That gentle encouragement—completely lacking the expected artifice or irony—is the softest thing he’s ever said to me. I wonder how I’ll pay for that kindness later. Because there’s no doubt that I will. But those thoughts scatter as he presses in, drawing out a long, low moan.

_Oh, fuck. Oh, God._

I breathe through the resistance, and he steadies me with a firm hand on my hip. 

“Oh, Sebby. Oh, darling, you’re perfect,” he says, stroking me. “Look at you: set out so pretty for me … all your gorgeous scars on display. I can’t believe we haven’t done this before.”

As though “we” are doing anything here. As though this isn’t entirely _his_ show. Still, I puff up at his praise, my skin hot and flushed.

He scratches his free hand across my side—over the left lateral abdominals mangled by a Taliban IED in ’04. He digs in hard enough to draw blood, and I suck in a shaky inhale through my nose. The cuffs tremble with a metallic clang as I search for something to grip, search for leverage. Cheek pressed to mattress, back bowed low, hips rocking into his touch—I writhe and squirm. I want more. _More_.

“I can read you like a book … trace your history in jagged lines and bullet holes. Look at your stripes, Tiger—you’re a patchwork of violence and horror. It’s _glorious_.” 

His words are whispered and reverent. Soft as his touches are rough. He makes me feel wanted in a way I haven’t … well, ever. Takes the dark words that have banged around my head for years and twists them into something good. Words like “brutal” and “broken” and “scarred”.

When he adds a second slick finger, I push through the ache, starbursts popping behind my lids. He moans, a decadent sound that resonates down, down deep inside me. He folds himself over me, chest to back, skin to skin. Smooth lips brush between my shoulder blades, and I arch up into his kiss.

“I think I’d like to make them all bleed again.” He bites down, a sudden sharp attack that threatens to break the skin. “Mark you up. Make you mine. Would you like that?”

The noise that comes out of me is a whine—a pathetic, eager cry—and Bossman feeds on it, pushing deeper, scratching harder. _Yes_ , I say with every rock of my hips. _Yes_ , he says with every savage bite and vicious scrape. We’ll bruise and burn together. We’ll burst like shrapnel and rain blood on the pavement before we’re through.

“Are you ready?” he breathes against my neck while a wet trickle runs down my sides and drips onto the mattress. “You know what’s coming next.”

I nod.

“Okay, Tiger,” he says and slips away, leaving me unmoored.

I shiver, missing his heat. He fumbles with the straps on my thighs, and I give a grateful stretch when I’m released from the confines of the bar. My legs ache, my skin’s flushed, my prick hard. I can hardly breathe for the anticipation.

It’s a passing idea—a small whisper of a thought, mind you—that I could free myself now. I could flip to my back, pin him between my thighs, and break his neck before he could say, “What’s the matter, Tiger?” But that’s just the dying cries of my ego. What I have left of pride is tissue-paper thin and just as insubstantial.

My loyalty, on the other hand, is iron-hard. My desire … molten-hot and heavy. It’s a roaring in my ears that won’t be silenced until I feel him again.

He doesn’t disappoint.

After a few moments, the mattress rocks beneath my shins, and he shuffles close. He scoots between my legs, brushing the inside of my thighs and teasing me with his slippery cock. He lines up. Holds me still. Huffs nervously. I start to laugh at his sudden shyness, but it dies in my throat.

I groan through the first push. 

Nearly break my teeth on the second.

“Oh, Tiger,” he whimpers through the third, and my lungs empty with a muffled howl.

When he’s fully seated, he gives me a moment to adjust, but that’s all. Just a beat, half a breath. I feel something evaporate in that tiny space—the last vestiges of his tenderness, maybe? If you can call any of what’s come before tender. He casts off his uncharacteristic attentiveness like an ill-fitting coat. Then he slip-slides into a series of relentless thrusts, and it’s all I can do to hold on.

I’m panting as he takes me, struggling to keep loose joints from popping. I stretch my knees apart, lift up on my forearms, but the relief is minor and the strain immense. My wrists are bruised and bleeding, my jaw is on fire, and my arse is stuffed full and aching. But it’s good. I mean it. It’s right, somehow. The violence. The pain. This is how I imagined him, when I was indulgent enough to picture such a moment: selfish, driven, wildly chasing his own pleasure.

He pounds into me like I’m nothing more than a means to an end, like I’m a secondary character in my own story … and it is sublime. There’s a kind of peace that comes with knowing he could lose himself because of me—that he’s lost himself in me.

After a time, he shifts. A new pain sparks in my scalp and drives all the way down my spine as he grasps a fistful of hair and _pulls_. My back is bowed, my face pointed skyward. I can’t move, can hardly breathe. He snaps his hips, and I shudder through a moan. It’s perfect. Perfect. I can feel—

_God, yes!_

I try to say as much, but it comes out a garbled mess.

“Like that?” he growls, voice low and amused. Rocking, still. Pounding.

“Ghgh!” 

He laughs, but I don’t care. He can laugh all he wants, as long as he doesn’t stop.

_Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop._

He’s hit it—inside me. That spot that makes my belly flip and my brain short-circuit. I can feel it build. Slow at first, like the distant sound of a train. But as he moves against me, as his breath streams hot across my shoulder blades, it grows louder. Closer. And I can’t think. I can’t—

It’s barreling down on me and he’s not even touching my cock, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. I’m— I’m—

“NFFGGHH!” I come hard, sobbing out my relief.

It goes on for ages as I flutter around him, pumping my hips. He groans and lets my hair loose. Arms wrap around my chest, hugging me close as the wet, frantic slap of our bodies echoes in my ears. Then he stills and gasps and fills me up.

“Sebby,” he cries, my name a revelation. “ _Seb_.”

We collapse on the bed, a short stack of sweaty limbs and heaving lungs. He stays tucked inside, growing soft and still.

_Don’t leave._

I don’t want to know what I’ll find on the other side of this. I don’t want to know. He seems just as reluctant, mouthing at my neck lazily and snaking his tongue out to taste me. It doesn’t feel like a goodbye, but who knows? Maybe he’s going to kill me now. Maybe he’ll say I’m off the job, and he’s done. Maybe he’ll try to convince me I’m nothing again.

I think I’d rather he kill me.

He’s all guttural groans and contented sighs as he rolls off. He tugs the strap around my head, and the gag falls out of my mouth with a sick, wet pop. I work my jaw around to loosen it up—swallow properly for the first time in hours—but I can tell it’s not going to feel right for days. Light floods my shuttered eyes, and I peel them open, one at a time. He’s there, grinning Cheshire Cat-smooth as I rest my cheek on my bound arms.

“That was fun.” He’s full of bravado and snark, and I know he’s already set himself at a protective distance. He’s snipped the thread—any intimacy I might have imagined in those last moments is severed.

“I suppose you’ll want to kill me now.”

It takes me a minute to understand what he’s saying—really, too long, given the circumstances. But I pick up on it eventually.

“No, boss.”

He’s not convinced; the cuffs stay in place.

“You didn’t have to go to all that trouble,” I croak, my voice raspy. “You could have just asked, you know?”

His frown turns into a sly smile, and I feel like I’ve passed some sort of test. He reaches across the bed to lift a set of keys from the nightstand.

“But where would the fun be in that? I rather enjoyed having you at my mercy.”

As soon as my wrists are free, I have his neck in my hands. His eyes bug out, fingers scrabbling at my grip. I squeeze slowly, pressing his larynx with my thumbs until his skin turns mottled—purple and red. He’s so completely startled—a cruel master who can’t believe his dog has turned.

I meet his gaze and speak slowly and clearly. I want to make sure he understands. “You have my permission to tie me up. Gag me. Fuck me. Cut me. Go ahead and play your games—I really don’t care.”

Rage clouds his eyes as he wheezes. He kicks impotently, failing to connect. I can see the panic set in. Watch him wondering how he’s going to get out of this. If this is the end.

“But you drug me again, and you better be prepared to kill me. Because I _will_ end you. Got it?”

Everybody’s got their hard limits.

I give it a second more to make my point, then release him. He rolls away from me, spluttering and drooling, gulping mouthfuls of air between hacking coughs.

I fall back against the bed, suddenly exhausted. Maybe I crossed a line there. Maybe that’s the kind of thing he won’t forgive. Honestly, I’m so fucking tired, I don’t care. I’m a mess of saliva and blood and come, but even that doesn’t matter.

Slice me up. Teach me a lesson. Just save it for tomorrow—let me sleep now, please.

My eyes drift closed, and I hold my breath … waiting for a blow that never comes. The bed rocks and dips, and I feel him stand. For a long time he doesn’t move. I listen to the air flow in and out of my mouth, feel myself sinking into the filthy bedspread.

“Okay, Tiger,” he murmurs, so quiet I almost miss it.

He folds a blanket over me and flips off the light.

Then I’m lost to the world again.

 

 

….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gulp*
> 
> I could go into a rather long discussion about my thoughts on this chapter, but in the end it's going to speak for itself. I will just say, if you've gotten this far and haven't flounced yet, thank you, friend.


	8. Will You Call Me Pretty Tomorrow?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If things change, it’s in the way a mountain erodes or a riverbed forms—a gradual slicing away, a nearly imperceptible shift. He’s still cold and removed, quick to anger, but sometimes his mask slips, and I can see a man underneath the mystery._

My eyes are cemented closed. My mouth gravelly-thick and sour. My whole body aches—head to toe … to arsehole. Historically, it isn’t that unusual to wake up feeling like I spent the night wrestling cats, but I’m having a hard time pulling up the specifics behind these particular hurts. I’m not at home, for one. The noises of the room, the way the bed feels, the quality of the light against my closed lids are all off. I pull my eyes open. See cream wallpaper and bad hotel art. Turn on my side, scratchy blanket slipping down to my hips, and the picture pulls into focus.

Bossman is sitting in an overstuffed armchair, sipping from a paper coffee cup, and scrolling one-handed through his phone.

Right. 

Right. Okay.

Mystery solved.

He’s wearing a fresh suit—navy pinstripes with an ivory tie. Showered and shaved. He must have gone home to clean up, but then why did he come back? I can’t remember anything after I passed out. Have no idea if he left right away or stuck around a bit. Seems like too much to think he might have crawled into bed with me and copped some z’s, but a man can hope, right? 

“You get one of those for me?”

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t look startled to hear me speak, either. 

“I did. But you slept in so late, I finished my cup and had to start on yours.” He grins wickedly. “Sor-ry.” Never heard a more insincere apology.

I push myself to sitting and feel gritty flakes of blood and dried come slough off in patches as I inspect the damage. My wrists are a mess from the cuffs, and I’m covered in bruises and scratches—multiple sets of angry red lines striped across my side, down my legs and arms. It’s all pretty shallow, though. Nothing that won’t heal quick.

“Fuck, I need a shower.”

“Nobody stopping you.”

I give my fingers a stretch, and the bloody cracks in my knuckles jog something loose. A lot of shit went down last night, and not just the sex stuff. The room looks mighty clean, given everything that happened in here.

“Where’s the whelp?”

Boss lifts a brow but doesn’t look up. “Is that some clever euphemism I’m supposed to understand?”

I shake my head, motion to the empty chair in the far corner. “The kid. The runner. The one I was punching before you stuck me with God-knows-what and I lost the plot.”

He sighs. “Don’t tell me you’re going to hold a grudge.”

“Hold a gru—for fuck’s sake, Boss, I’m just stating facts. You don’t want to be called on your shit, don’t do shitty things.” I scrub my hands over my face, wondering where I’m getting the bollocks to talk to him like this. Maybe something shifted between us last night. Maybe this is just the beginning. “You didn’t answer my question. Where’s the kid?”

“I took care of him while you were … otherwise indisposed.” 

 _Fancy way of putting it._ “Took care of him.”

“Yes, Sebastian. I do know how to kill people.” His nostrils flair—it’s kinda cute. I like playing with fire.

“Clean him up, too? This place is spotless.”

“Don’t be stupid. I had the crew in.”

I take a breath. Give myself time to process that. “While I was naked and cuffed to the bed?”

He looks up from his phone, gaze cold. Challenging. “Is that a problem?”

And there it is. Such a tiny piece of information. Were I another man, it’s the kind of thing that could topple a kingdom. But I’m just a tin soldier in the toy box, easily replaced. I swallow my irritation down. I know what answer he’s looking for, and anything short of that is going to put me in a position I’m frankly not up for today.

“No,” I grit out. “No problem at all.”

Jesus. I can imagine the looks I’m gonna get the next time I see those fucks. My head hurts.

And none of this, by the way, answers the question of why he’s still here. Unless he just wants to get a good look at my arse on the way to the shower. You’d think he’d gotten enough of an eyeful last night. 

Well, fuck it. Give the man what he wants.

The blanket puddles to the floor as I stand. I take a leisurely skyward stretch, and Boss tracks the movement, amused. Yeah, okay. Maybe I’m showing off a little. I can feel him watch me as I pad across the room, and I don’t bother hiding my smirk.

“You gonna be here when I get out?”

“It was one night, Tiger. Don’t get clingy.”

Ouch—that stings. Then I remember he’s the one waiting around for me to wake up. The one bringing me coffee the morning after (even if it didn’t quite make it to me).

The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

…

Weeks go by, and we float along as always.

If things change, it’s in the way a mountain erodes or a riverbed forms—a gradual slicing away, a nearly imperceptible shift. He’s still cold and removed, quick to anger, but sometimes his mask slips, and I can see a man underneath the mystery.

Work carries on as usual: move shit, steal shit, kill shit. The pretext of “Moriarty” still stands, but it becomes a kind of inside joke. Bossman invokes the name with a wink and a smile and continues using aliases, each more ridiculous than the last. He never invites me to call him anything but “Sir”, and I suppose he has his reasons for that. I can live with it.

One morning, a mint BMW Z8 shows up outside my bedsit. Sleek and shiny. More expensive than I care to think about. From then on, I chauffeur the boss around instead of meeting him at assigned locations, which is how I get a look at his place for the first time: a nondescript brownstone above a designer lamp store on Conduit Street. Somehow, he always times his exit from the building perfectly, slipping into the passenger seat before I’ve come to a full stop. Maybe there’s a tracking device on the car. I mean, I wouldn’t put it past him to have me under twenty-four hour surveillance. 

Bossman says the car is mine, a gift for being a good boy. But he always chooses the music—blasting disco or opera, depending on his mood—and bans food inside the car.

With this new arrangement, some of the guys on the crew start to look at me strange. They see the way Boss talks to me, the way we share space. See us wander into the shadows together, coming out rumpled and grinning. I’ll catch them talking in hushed tones, clamming up when I get near. Bossman scares them—for good reason. The turnover rate on this job is higher than any fast-food joint. But me … I think I baffle them.

Why would anyone get so close to something so unpredictable, right? Like standing on the beach during a tsunami. But I figure … why wouldn’t you? If you had the chance to weather a storm like that and walk away at least somewhat whole, why the fuck wouldn’t you?

Sometimes we fuck after a job. Desperate, adrenaline-fueled rutting: rushed hand jobs in an alley or messy buggering in the back room of a club. Sometimes I’m covered in someone else’s blood before we start, but I’m always smeared with my own by the time we’re done. He’s never been to my place, and I’ve never been inside his. We don’t go on dates. We don’t spend the night. We don’t cuddle or spoon.

We never kiss.

I tried once and got a fist in my jaw for my trouble. It’s fine. Hard limits, right?

Guess it’s like his name. Just some places I cannot tread.

…

It’s a cool evening, the sun long gone. I’m on the roof thirty stories up, waiting for some wanker in the office building across the way to get out of the toilet. Boss didn’t want any witnesses for this one, so I’ve dawdled through the suit’s last meeting and either an epic shit or end-of-day tug in the men’s loo. I have to re-zero my scope every time the wind shifts, and the night’s not getting any calmer.

I want a fag and a shower.

I want crap telly and Mongolian beef.

I want to be off this roof.

The door to the toilet swings open at last, and my target heads east, back towards his office. I track him down the hall, moving across blind spots and obstacles, and then … he’s … there. He’s framed in the doorway for a fraction of a second, but that’s my shot. Bossman was very specific.

There’s a buzz in my pocket as I squeeze the trigger. The office window spiderwebs, and pale blue walls are splattered red. The mark falls. I grab my phone.

It takes me a second to untangle the message—I’m tired, and this ain't exactly his usual.

**_Miscalculated._ **

**_Assistance required. Now. 45 Branthway Street._ **

A second message pings as I’m reading the first.

**_Otherwise, come collect what’s left of me._ **

Then I’m off my ass, disassembling my rifle in record time and sprinting through my terror. I have no idea what he’s gotten himself into, but it doesn’t sound good. Is this some deal gone south? Has he been taken?

Russians? Serbs? MI5?

I don’t know. I don’t know. He never tells me fucking _anything_ , so I have no idea what I’m walking into, or how much time I might have.

Fuck.

_Fucking fuck fuck!_

I don’t remember my path off the roof or getting into my car. At some point I must have plugged the address into my GPS, because I’m speeding through the city towards a destination, running red lights and blowing back the hair of slack-jawed tourists.

Ten minutes. Ten breathless, unbearable, white-knuckled minutes, and I’m squealing to a stop outside an unmarked door on a narrow, one-way lane called Branthway Street. It must be the place. A big piece of tattooed muscle stands against the wall, cigarette in hand. He’s pushing himself up, halfway through a grunted protest when I slam his nasal bone into his brainpan, and he’s not complaining no more.

Behind the entryway is a poorly lit hallway tagged by kids and stinking of piss. A grated steel door blocks my path, but the angels must be on my side, because it looks like the dead muscle outside left it unlocked. I push it open, army-issue Browning drawn, and tip-toe my way down a set of concrete stairs. Laughter floats up to me from an unseen basement room—five, maybe six distinct voices—followed by a barking order for quiet.

“Your boss, Trunchbull, that’s all we want. Just give us Moriarty, and all this will stop.”

There’s a wet splat and the sound of someone clearing their throat. “And I told _you_ , his mummy isn’t allowing visitors right now. Try again tomorrow.”

My lungs scream as I heave a silent, relieved sigh—it feels like the first breath I’ve drawn in hours. He’s alive. He’s croaking like some half-dead piece of roadkill, but _he’s alive_.

And, of course, he’s still managing to be a snarky little shit.

I finish my descent and peek around the corner just in time to see Bossman take a backhand to the face. He shakes it off and locks on his assailant with a murderous glare. Then he lights on me, and my focus narrows, the discordant ringing in my head going quiet. I take his dawning grin and subtle nod as my cue—and pop, pop, pop—two men and a woman go down before they know I’m here.

“What the fu—?” Another one charges, slamming me off my feet and knocking the wind out of me. Fortunately, he’s unarmed but for an overblown sense of confidence. One more crack echoes off stone walls, and he’s screaming and clutching at his gut, pouring blood all over me. I push him off and scramble to my feet, silencing him with one between the eyes. The room goes quiet and still.

Bossman is a mess—strapped to a chair, shirt torn open, bruised and bloody, wearing a wide slash of a smile like The Joker from my old _Batman_ comics. The fucker that was working him over is the last man standing. He has a knife to that pretty, pale throat, and he’s hiding behind the chair like the coward cunt he is.

“I’ll do it!” he screams, trembling. “Just back the fuck up, or I’ll slit his throat.” His brows are crushed together, mossy teeth bared in a grimace.

“What do you guys do, buy your lines off a BBC scriptwriter? Jesus fucking Christ.”

He has just long enough to look surprised before his head snaps back, left eye socket smoking. He falls, and the knife clatters uselessly to the ground. I holster my gun and close the distance with three quick strides.

“Anyone else I need to worry about?”

“No.” Boss spits, a glob of blood splattering the floor, and tongues the hole where his front tooth used to be. “Assuming you took care of the mouth-breather upstairs.”

I grunt in the affirmative and bend down to retrieve the knife. Saves me a few seconds of having to look at the damage. I need a moment to get my head right, to calm the fuck down. If I think too hard about what might have happened, I’m gonna start desecrating corpses, and that’s not on the fucking agenda right now.

By the time I get it together enough to free his wrists, my hands have stopped shaking. I cut the tape binding his ankles to the chair, and he groans through the new freedom of movement.

“Lemme see.”

He holds out his hands and submits to my prodding. He’s got a couple broken fingers, maybe a sprained wrist. I’m not taking any chances, so I dial the on-call doc and tell her to meet us at Conduit Street in ten minutes. While I’m looking over the rest of him, I message Brewster on the cleaning crew and tell him to bring some boys over.

“You didn’t save me any, Seb.” Pretty-psycho-boy is drowsy, pupils dancing in and out of focus. “Didn’t leave me anyone to punish.”

“Don’t worry, Boss. We’ll make some nice presents of them for their families. A couple pairs of shoes? Maybe some lampshades.” I dare a glance at his mangled face and force a smile. “Plus, there’s always the rest of the gang to deal with. Who was it? Whitechapel Boys? Hoxton Street?”

He doesn’t answer, but I have no doubt the discussion is merely tabled, not abandoned. It’s pretty clear these are small-change local thugs. Probably the reason Boss got in trouble with them in the first place—the Eastern European syndicates are brutal and organized, so dealings with them are always tightly managed.

He got cocky. Underestimated the threat. Didn’t help that these dip-shits were dumb as rocks. He can usually talk his way out of this kind of thing, but the irony is, you can’t threaten someone if they’re too slow to recognise their own danger.

I’m mopping up the worst of the blood on his chest with the tattered remains of his shirt. Somebody fucking went to town with that blade. Most of the cuts will need stitches, but it doesn’t look like the arseholes hit anything vital—he can wait for professional attention.

“That bad, huh?” he asks after a moment.

“What’s that?”

“My face,” he slurs. “You can hardly look at me, darling.”

I glance up, forcing myself not to wince. “Nah, Boss—just trying to get you travel-ready.”

“We’ll be twins now. A couple of torn-up goblins.” He’s aiming for bravado, but all I hear is an undercurrent of despair.

The man is vain; there’s not a mirror he hasn’t fallen in love with. But he rarely lets himself be vulnerable. My throat goes thick, my jaw clenched tight. I want to kill those fuckers all over again. Want to take my time. Make it hurt.

“Don’t be stupid. A visit to the dentist, get the plastic surgeon to stitch you up—you’ll be good as new.” My voice cracks. “Pretty as a peach.”

I wipe at his mouth, steering clear of his broken nose. His eyes are puffy and red. They’ll be purple-black by day’s end.

“Hey, Tiger?”

“Yeah, Boss?”

His eyes flutter closed, and I catch him as he tips out of the chair.

“Thanks for coming,” he murmurs against my shoulder, weight resting in my arms. “Thought I was a goner there.”

He must be out of it. He’s never thanked me for anything. I’m a little amazed he’s not threatening to cut something vital out of me for taking so fucking long.

“Anytime.” 

We need to move. He needs a real doc, not some bumbling, pretend field-medic. I wrap an arm around his back and another under his knees. 

“Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner, sir,” I grunt as I lift.

He giggles as I manoeuvre around a corpse on the way to the stairs. His breath is warm and wet as he whispers against my ear, and the shock of his message nearly sends us sprawling. I regain my footing, but not my scrambled brain—it takes the entire drive to his flat for me to find my voice again. He passes out in the bucket seat, bleeding on black nappa leather while his words echo in my head.

_I think it’s time you called me Jim._

 

 

….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whew!*
> 
> Well, my loves, that's this week's episode of _The Colossal Prick and the Sniper Who Loves Him._ Thank you, everyone who has read or commented or given kudos. Life is busy, but your vocal affection for the story brings me back to the keyboard day after day.
> 
> xoxo,  
> s


	9. Armour and Razorblades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He owns me. We both know that. He’s owned me from the moment he shot Eddie in that stinking back alley. But his name? That’s a tag around my neck, a microchip under my skin. I’m not some stray that can sneak out the back door—if that was ever an option. I’m good and collared now._
> 
> _Jim and his pet._
> 
> _Tiger on a leash._

Jim.

Little Jimmy.

Jamie-five-fingers.

The Spider.

Mr James Moriarty.

The Most Dangerous Man in London.

_Jim_.

Part of me will always think of him as Pretty-psycho-boy. But knowing what I do, seeing how things are … yeah, I get it. Why he kept it from me all this time. Why he trots out those disguises, why no two people call him the same thing.

There’s power in a name.

And now that he’s told me … well, let’s just say it’s not something I take lightly. I sure as fuck know _he_ doesn’t take it lightly, and I figure the chances of my imminent demise have significantly increased. Once Bossman wakes up. When he realises what he’s said and what I’ve seen. If the confession was a momentary slip inspired by fever haze and blood loss, I’m fucked. I’m good as mince pie. But if he’s honestly had a change of heart, if he trusts me today more than he did yesterday … well, I guess I’m still fucked. Just not for the same reason and certainly not in the same way.

He owns me. We both know that. He’s owned me from the moment he shot Eddie in that stinking back alley. But his name? That’s a tag around my neck, a microchip under my skin. I’m not some stray that can sneak out the back door—if that was _ever_ an option. I’m good and collared now.

Jim and his pet.

Tiger on a leash.

Maybe he’s going to end me soon, but right now he doesn’t look like he could hurt anything—so fucking small in that gigantic bed of his. A little boy tucked into mountains of plush. I should have known his decor would be something plucked straight from the halls of Versailles. I’ve been sitting here all night, but I still can’t get over the offensive amounts of gold and silk and floral scrollwork covering every inch of the master bedroom. The king is wan and pale, but he’s swimming in decadence.

My mouth is sour, my body stiff. I haven’t eaten anything in hours. Haven’t slept. I should be tracking down the other fuckers responsible for this, every small-time shit associated with the mess being mopped up on Branthway Street. I should be overseeing the operation while Bossman is down for the count. I should be working damage control, stamping out any rumours that might be flying around about his current state. There’s a lot I should be doing.

But all I want to do is crawl under the duvet and pull that broken body into my arms. I want to nuzzle his cuts and wipe away his pain. I want to hold him while he struggles—while he kicks and bites—hold him so long, he forgets we don’t do that, we aren’t like that. Squeeze him until all the fight goes out of him and he holds me right back. I want to take him and kiss him and whisper his name. I want … I want …

Jesus Christ, I’m the dumbest goddamned fuck in the world.

There’s a rustle from the bed, and I spring out of the chair. 

“Seb,” he groans, cutting through hours of silence. His eyes aren’t even open—how the hell does he know I’m here? 

How the hell does he know any of the things he does? I wouldn’t be surprised if he could read minds, even doped up on pain meds and tripping his ass off. I’m keeping a solid distance in case he wakes up in a foul mood, rocking my boots on the soft Persian rug. 

Fuck. I bet a dandy like him has a no-shoes-in-the-house rule. Maybe I should have taken them off.

“Seb?” His eyes blink open, pupils wide and unfocused. His gaze lands on me, and that’s it. There’s no more putting it off.

“Yeah, Boss.” I close the distance in a few strides. “Whatcha need?”

I know his name now—you’d think I’d take every opportunity to use it. It’s been running through my head on repeat all night, flowing like a mantra, but I still can’t bring myself to voice it. After all this time not knowing, it tastes strange on my tongue. 

“Water.”

Ice clatter-clinks in the pitcher on his nightstand as I pluck out a chip with my fingers. 

“Doc says ice is better for a little while.”

He opens his mouth wide—a flicker of amusement sparking in his eyes—and I set the shard on his tongue without comment. He holds it there, mouth open, tongue jutting obscenely, watching me watch him as the whole thing melts. Ages later, when there’s nothing left but a puddle cupped in his mouth, he swallows and murmurs a smarmy, “Thanks.”

If he’s annoyed to find me in his house, looking after him like a good little nurse, he doesn’t show it. Actually, all he’s showing right now is the urge to pass out again. His eyes flutter closed, and I hover for a minute, watching his chest rise and fall. When he doesn’t stir after a few minutes, I shuffle back to the armchair in the corner.

Baroque furniture may look fancy, but it’s about as comfortable as a block of cement. I shift my arse on the thinly padded seat and settle in for another vigil.

Like I said, dumbest goddamned fuck in the world.

…

It’s another twenty-four hours before he comes around in earnest. He grits his teeth when the doc checks his sprained wrist and stitches, but rejects anything more potent than Paracetamol. 

“You smell awful,” he says when we’re alone once more. “Worse than me.” 

His vicious tone hits me in the solar plexus—a warm, familiar punch. It feels like coming home.

“That’s quite a feat, considering I’m the one who’s been festering in these sheets for days.” He’s propped up against the headboard, phone in his uninjured hand and computer resting on his lap. The bed is still too big by miles, but he doesn’t look quite so small in it. “I know my excuse—what’s yours?” 

“Sorry,” I say, edging away from his side to lessen the offence. “Haven’t had a chance to catch a shower.”

“Ri-ight. During all those hours I was indisposed, you were, what? Too busy keeping me in ice chips to sneak away for a wash?” His teeth flash like fangs. “Waiting for the fair maiden to awaken? Hoping to rouse me with a kiss?” 

He licks his lips and goes in for the kill. “ _My hero_.”

It’s a talent, you know? Ripping out the jugular like that. Shredding a man’s dignity with barely a word. This kind of flippant decimation should hurt, should burn me right up. Should have me looking for a place to hide. 

All the shoulds in the world won’t set either of us right.

“Just wanted to make sure you didn’t get your arse kicked again, sir. Those Whitechapel boys did a number on you the first time around.”

His eyes gleam, shining black irises nestled inside rings of purple bruises. The smile doesn’t quite reach his mouth.

“Funny.” He tongues the implant the dentist fixed him up with that first night. “Very amusing, Sebastian. But I don’t think you’ll find it quite so funny when I knock out one of your pearly whites.”

Contrition comes as second nature by this point—the chastised frown, the submissive dip of my head. I’m still considering whether I need to blow my wad with a full apology when Bossman’s threatening glare breaks, and I know I’m off the hook.

“Who are we kidding?” He flaps his hand in the direction of my face. “A broken tooth would be a drop in the bucket compared to that mess.”

My breath catches in my throat, and I gurgle my surprise. There’s a second before I school my thoughts, the briefest instant when I know I’m broadcasting how very much that hurt. Too late, I recover and smile numbly—a horrible plastic thing that’s fooling no one. 

I’m not handsome; I know this. Any bloke with eyes can tell you as much. It’s fine; I’ve come to terms. But Bossman … _Jim_ … he’s never let on it bothered him before. I mean, I always got the impression he liked my scars. That he liked me _for_ my scars.

“Oh, Tiger, don’t cry.” He smiles, ruthless. “You’re still Daddy’s favourite—even if you are a bit like a chewed-up Barbie at the bottom of the toy box.”

I know he’s just lashing out. He’s fighting this feeling of powerlessness, getting revenge for being helpless. This isn’t about me, I tell myself. It’s not personal.

_It feels personal._  

This is his ego on a search-and-destroy mission.

_Watch me burn._

I wonder if we’ll ever get tired of this game, the desperate need to prove we’re untouchable. The casual cruelty and ever-present stoicism. Emotional armour and razor-sharp words. Thing is, he’s always going to win. He has a taste for blood, and he’ll do anything to keep the upper hand. 

I clear my throat and try to derail the pissing contest. If you can’t beat ‘em, distract ‘em, right? It’s all so obvious and pathetic. But fuck it.

“I didn’t want to move without your say-so, but I think we need to send a strong reply, sir.”

He ignores me, attention on his phone, typing awkwardly with his right hand. An antique grandfather clock chimes somewhere in the flat, clanging out twelve bongs while I wait for a reply.

“So, boss?” I prod when he still doesn’t answer. “Next steps? Want me to get some guys together?”

“It’s taken care of,” he murmurs, not looking up.

“What? When?” How could he have managed that? He’s been here for two days. “It’s taken care of? _All_ of it?”

He smacks his lips and drops his phone with a sigh. I’m suddenly wishing I’d kept my mouth fucking shut. The detached disinterest of his expression spells anything but.

So casual, he could be asking about the weather, he says, “I thought you’d be calling me Jim by now.”

_What?_

Is that an invitation? Something he wants? 

“The way you salivated over my name for months and months— _Come on, Boss. Don’t you trust me, Boss?_ I thought you’d feel special. That you’d be simply bursting with warm fuzzies.”

Jesus Christ. I’m gonna get whiplash. Maybe I should request hazard pay for the psychological damage inflicted by these fucking mind games. 

“I suppose that’s why you felt the need to sit at my bedside like a good little wifey. Is that what you thought? That I needed you to watch over me? That I’d be lost without my big, strong Sebby?”

I try to tune it out. I know he’s just baiting me.

“You know what? Fuck you.” 

_So much for tuning it out._

I pull out a fag and light up, and screw him if he doesn’t like it. “I saved your sorry ass. I don’t expect a thank you, but you can fuck off with this shit.” 

His brows lift into that gigantic forehead of his, eyes popping in mock surprise. He actually puts hand to breast, gasping like some affronted ingenue.

“Are you _kidding_ me?” I stab the cigarette towards him, and his mask cracks (but it doesn’t crumble).

He’s not surprised. He knows exactly what’s going on. There’s not a second of this conversation he didn’t plan out—I bet he had this scene plotted in his head before the doc left the room, maybe even before he woke up. So this face he’s pulling? He can cut that noise right now. I’m done being pawed at like a fucking mouse. He should go in for the kill or leave me the hell alone.

I take a drag—it’s the first cigarette I’ve had in two days, and it’s heaven. “Maybe you don’t care how this looks. Fine. See if I come for you the next time some pencil dick with grand designs tries to bury you in a cellar.”

Part of me knows I’m just following his script—we’ve done this too many times for me to think differently—but I hope, Jesus, I _hope_ I’m wrong. Just once, it would be nice to write my own story.

He sets his computer and phone aside, deliberately smoothing the blanket over his lap, and I know it’s not meant to be. A thin smile forms on his lips, and flat black eyes peer back at me. Like it doesn’t matter. Like he’s already won and he’s _bored_ by it. Like it would take too much effort to even celebrate his victory.

“No one is burying me anywhere. There were a dozen men standing ready to take that room out, had you failed to do your job. And believe me, if you’d cut it any fucking closer, you would be in a hundred pieces right now, Sebastian. You would be cat food.”

I feel a sick roiling in my stomach as what he says sinks in. Moments from that night flicker-flash through my mind.

_A smashed-up face, blood everywhere._

_Dead bodies on the ground._

_Broken fingers, a sad smile._

_“Thanks for coming.”_

_His weight heavy in my arms. A fragile whisper against my ear._

_“I think it’s time you called me Jim.”_

I don’t get it. I don’t understand. “What are you talking about? You said you ‘miscalculated’. Said you needed my help.”

He sighs heavily, disappointed. “It was a set-up, Seb. I was never in any real danger.”

“ _But why?_ ” I shake my head, lost. Ash falls from my trembling hand. “Your face is _hamburger!_ Why would you do that?”

“You don’t need to understand why—it served its purpose. You should just consider yourself lucky to still be breathing.”

I think a knife to my gut would be less painful than this conversation. My gaze goes soft as I try to reconcile everything we went through with everything he’s just said. My cigarette burns down, and I pinch the butt between my thumb and index finger, staring at it like the tar-stained filter might hold the secrets of the universe. But it’s hopeless. There aren’t any answers—none my pea-sized brain can suss out, anyway. I take two steps to his side, drop the butt into the long-melted pitcher of ice chips, and turn on my heel.

“Don’t be sore, Seb!” he calls as I head out the door. “You can still be my big, strong hero! We’ll do some role play—let’s call in the boys to pretend to kidnap me. I’ll even let you rough them up a bit. Come on, Tiger, I _need_ you!”

His cackling laughter follows me down the hallway as I make my retreat. I find the BMW where I parked it, ignoring the rust-coloured smears on the seats as I make my way home.

 

 

 

….

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say, dear readers, aside from it probably won't get too much worse. But my mother told me not to make promises I can't keep, so ... 
> 
> Suffice it to say, I do have an angst limit, whatever that's worth. 
> 
> As always, I want to thank Marly580 and Darcysmom for their terrific work cleaning this up.
> 
> My DTCPS girls have been a support for years, but they had a significant influence on getting this chapter out, so I want to send them all hugs and kisses. Dreamy, I'm glad your words are flowing, and thank you so much for reading mine.
> 
> **EDIT 6/20: Posting is going to slow WAY down this summer. I'm sorry about that, my dears. For an explanation you can read this, if interested:** http://this-simple-mind.tumblr.com/post/89360055149/summertime-hiatus


	10. Between Destinations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A man like Jim won’t ever make me happy. I’m not stupid—I get that. I’m not asking for happy. I just … I guess I’d like a few steps up from miserable, you know? All I need is an inch, a little give. Maybe he’s capable of that._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _I’m not holding my breath, though._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I've been gone FOREVER, my loves. This summer has been amazing, but particularly busy: kids to attend to and travel to Oregon and Ireland have kept me away from my computer. I'm also realizing that while I love telling this story, I need to be telling some non-fan stories as well. I plan to be working on original fiction in between Pretty Boy chapters, so that will affect my posting pace. 
> 
> But for now, enjoy our dysfunctional duo.

Water stains and broken plaster.

I’ve been staring at this rotted ceiling since the day I slouched back into this shitty excuse of an Empire—guess that’s going on six months now. Above my bed, there’s a waterlogged spot shaped like the coast of Africa, complete with creeping mould islands in place of the Canaries. It’s the first thing I see when I wake up and the last before I fall asleep. I keep thinking maybe I’ll patch it up or paint over it or something. That’s what people do when they make a home, right? Take care of their shit. Make things livable.

That would be fine and all, if this were any kind of home. But like all the barracks and boltholes and broken-down dumps that came before, it’s nothing more than a place to lay my head. A temporary address halfway between one sorry destination and the next. I could pick up some plants, hang curtains on the windows, build shelves for the paperbacks currently piled on the floor … and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. Cosmetic changes can’t turn a roach-infested bedsit into someplace you want to settle down. Might as well decorate a commuter rail platform. No, you find yourself in a place like this, and eventually you have to decide: climb on the train and take your chances, or jump onto the fucking tracks.

When I first returned to London, I was pretty sure I knew which direction I was heading—and no, it wasn’t a ride in the first-class compartments. Couple hundred pounds to my name and a load of bad memories hanging like an overfed monkey on my back. Closest thing I had to a plan was to drink my way through the cash into a nice patch of oblivion. Wouldn’t be the worst way to go, all things considered.

Then Jim came along, and for the first time in years, I felt … something. I felt _alive_. If only because of his intimate relationship with death. The man gave new meaning to “rose-coloured glasses”, spraying everything he touched in crimson mist. It was beautiful and horrible and everything I never knew I needed.

But I see now: all that life, all that excitement comes at a cost.

A man like Jim won’t ever make me happy. I’m not stupid—I get that. I’m not asking for happy. I just … I guess I’d like a few steps up from miserable, you know? All I need is an inch, a little give. Maybe he’s capable of that.

I’m not holding my breath, though. 

Things are bad, but not so bad I can’t take it for a little while longer. Like these roaches underfoot, I’m built for survival. I’m still on the platform, and for now, I’ve got water stains and cracked plaster to keep me occupied.

 …

Days pile up.

He doesn’t text. Doesn’t call. Doesn’t leave any random body parts outside my door (it happens; don’t ask).

This time, when the boss goes radio silent, I’m ready for it. I don’t sit at home and wait for the phone to ring. Don’t wallow (for too long) in my own stinking ennui. I keep busy, give myself a task every day—even if it’s just a half hour sharpening my blades or doing laundry. I read. I go to the gym. I make sure the takeaway containers don’t pile up too high. 

It helps. Keeps me out of the pubs until a decent hour. Keeps my armchair from forming a permanent arse impression. I’ve just finished carrying my rubbish down to the bins in the alley behind my flat—today’s exercise in productivity—when I turn the corner and walk smack into a slip of a girl. She bounces off my chest with a soft grunt. It’s been a few weeks, but she’s got the same riotous curls and warm umber complexion. The easy laugh, I’m sad to say, is gone.

“Oi, Goliath, watch where you’re—” The recognition in her eyes is followed swiftly by disdain. Her voice drops, tone flat. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Hey, Steph. Sorry.”

The barmaid from my old haunt huffs and crosses her arms. “Yeah, you are.” 

So not forgiven, then. Wouldn’t expect anything else. After the way Bossman treated her—with me holding my dick and looking on—she’s got every right to her anger. It’s etched there, in the creases above her forehead and the tight set of her mouth. 

Her companion, a tall bird with purple hair and a dozen piercings, who I’m only now registering, strokes Steph’s arm, eyes flicking back and forth between us. She’s got the proprietary stance of a more-than-friend, and suddenly I’m rethinking the way Steph used to flirt.

“You know this guy?”

“Used to,” Steph says with an icy finality.

I’ve got this strange urge to repair things, like maybe I could earn some absolution. I take a step forward, trying to close the distance. She retreats, repelled like a magnet facing the same pole.

“Listen, I’m sorry,” I say, leaving her the space she wants. “My boss, he’s got control issues. It’s no excuse, but—”

“Hey, Killer—or was it _Sebby_?” she says, cutting off my apology at the knees. “I don’t need sorry. I need you to move the fuck on.” She waves her hand as though shooing away a stray dog. “Clear?”

I nod, feeling a stupid tightening in my throat. “Clear.”

With a final glare, Steph turns, taking the girl’s hand and making a quick cross of the road. 

Not sure why I bothered. It’s not like Steph and I are ever going to be friends. Not like we ever _were_ friends. Guess I just liked the idea of knowing someone around here. Someone who doesn’t spend their spare time leaving body parts outside my door and carving their initials into lowlifes from the criminal underclass.

…

“So this is where you live.” He hums, unimpressed. “I’ve been to Third World villages with more amenities.”

Bossman has made himself at home in the only chair in the room, lounging with hands cupped over the ends of the rests, black suit crisp against grimy beige upholstery. He watches me like a house cat, projecting ease and disdain in equal measure.

I close the door with a soft _snick_ and drop my keys onto the kitchenette counter, taking an extra half second to get my bearings. None of my own blades are within reach, but there’s a dull kitchen knife nearby that would do. In a pinch, I might be able to get to the gun taped under the coffee table, but it’s not likely I could manage it before he got a shot off (if he hasn’t disposed of my piece already, that is). Not many other options besides good old hand-to-hand, and I’d definitely have the advantage there—but only on the slight chance he’s entirely unarmed.

So that half second yielded some pretty useless results. I lean against the counter and try not to let on how rattled I am. It’s not just the danger inherent in this unexpected visit. I haven’t seen that arrogant mug in so long, and as much as I hate to admit it, I’ve missed it.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were living in squalor? Am I not paying you enough?”

“What are you doing here?” I’d like to know—sooner than later—if I should expect to die today.

He picks at an imaginary thread and tut-tuts with a frown. “Rude. Aren’t you going to offer me a drink? I’ve come all this way; seems the least you could do.”

So we’re playing the gracious host and his guest. Okay, fine. I suppose that means I’m at least likely to see the end of the day.

With the threat of imminent danger behind, I’m at leisure to give him a more solid once-over. He still bears the marks of the attack. The brace on his left wrist peeks out from the cuff of his jacket, index and middle fingers taped together. The bruises have faded to a sour yellow tinge around his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He’s been tenderized, but he doesn’t look any worse for the wear; the broken man I walked away from weeks ago is a shadow. A memory.

His parting words? Well, let’s just say they’re as sharp in my mind as ever.

“I got tap water and cheap scotch.”

“I suppose you have a dirty glass for me as well.” He sits forward, vibrating with glee. “Let’s make it a scotch, then. I want the _full_ Hackney experience.”

I’m not taking the bait. I don’t care what he thinks of this dump—it’s not like I’m proud of it or anything. But he’s been sitting here for a while … long enough to get an eyeful of the pants hanging off the corner of the bed and the porn mags and lube peeking out from under the frame.

Jesus. What the fuck do I care? I’m not some spotty kid trying to get laid. Who gives a shit about any of this? 

The cupboard door groans on its hinges as I swing it open. The place came furnished with a mismatched assortment of tableware; enough for me and a guest, though I’ve never had occasion to use the extra set. I pull out a juice glass and a coffee mug plastered with the Queen’s grinning face. I pour two fingers into each, then pass him the mug and take the glass for myself. He lifts a brow, amused, but doesn’t comment.

“Sláinte,” he says, raising the mug, and I clink it.

“Cheers.”

There’s nowhere to sit—aside from my bed, and that’s definitely not on—so I lean back on the counter and pour the drink down my gullet. He takes a dainty sip, pinky raised to the sky in parody of posh gentility.

“So, how have you been?” he intones, carrying on the coffee klatch act.

I shrug, feeling suddenly tired. Heavy. Doesn’t matter how I’ve been. Doesn’t matter what I say. He’s not looking for a sincere answer. This isn’t a conversation; it’s a chess game, and he’s moving his pieces around the board.

It’s always the same—a costume, a play. And I fall for it. Every single time. I let myself think I’m getting close. Let myself believe I can touch him, affect him in some way. And then he shatters the illusion, and I’m right back where I started.

Or worse.

“I’ve been just grand, thanks for asking,” he says. “Don’t I look grand?”

“You look like someone who enjoys taking a beating.”

His composure wavers, trembling like a candle flame, and I know I’ve gone off-script. I’m not sure why I said it. It was an impudent crack, no matter how flippantly delivered. Words like that are close as cousins to a threat. And, yes, part of me is itching to give him that beating, let him really _feel_ it. Tear down the scenery brick by brick and see what’s underneath.

He smiles, mask in place. “Well, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

My stomach takes a dive, and I reach for the bottle.

Thing is, I would. I _do_ know all about that. And you wanna know the worst part about these past weeks? Not the hurt or boredom or endless hours alone. The worst part is right now. This moment. Because it’s only now—thinking about what I would have done if he’d called, what I would have done if he’d said, “Back to work, Sweet Cheeks”—that I realise I would have come running. It wasn’t even a question. It’s still not a question. He’s cut me open and stomped on my guts, and the possibility of turning him down has nevereven crossed my mind _._

I know all about taking a fucking beating. Seems like the only thing I do anymore.

Bossman studies me, tugging thoughtfully at his bottom lip. “You’re so easy to read, Sebastian. I can’t believe some jungle-dwelling despot hasn’t gobbled you up by now.” 

His voice is full of faux concern. Everything is faux with him. Everything but the violence. 

“My sweet, sad Tiger. How have you survived this long, wearing your heart on your sleeve like that?”

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe I’m special. Maybe I’m the only one to turn you into a panting wreck.” He finishes off the drink and discards the mug while my insides churn. “I see you missed me. Was it hard to function without the threat of Daddy’s belt looming over you?”

I ball my hands into fists, my heart pounding like a series of grenade blasts.

“Fuck. You.”

“Do you want to? I’m on a schedule, but I’ve got a few minutes if you’re desperate to get on your knees. I know it’s been a while—”

He gurgles, unable to finish the thought. I’ve pinned him to the armchair, right hand on his throat, left hand immobilizing his uninjured arm. It’s sloppy and stupid, the kind of hold an enraged husband uses on his unfaithful wife (or a piss-drunk father uses on his mouthy son). It’s not in my training. Not any way to bring a target down safely. ‘Course I’m not exactly thinking about best practises, right now.

I’m running on base instinct. Animal rage. I want him to shut up, close his yapping maw and leave me the fuck alone. Somewhere in all of this, I realise I’m saying this aloud.

“Leave. Me. The. Fuck. Alone.” 

I grunt the words between blows—Jim is clubbing my head with his brace, latching onto as sloppy a defense as my attack. The beating does more damage to him than me, and he abandons the assault, scrabbling at my shoulder instead. I think he’s re-broken his fingers. I should probably feel bad about that. 

I don’t.

I press down on his neck, squashing the back of his head into the chair. He’s straining and gasping, twisting under me. His legs kick out reflexively, but I’m on top of him, too close to connect. He slaps at my face and scratches along my neck and arms. It hardly registers. As my hand maps the architecture of trachea, muscle, and bone under his alabaster skin, something inside me—something mindless and primal—howls in satisfaction. 

No more games. No more pain. No more fucking _Boss_. 

He’s boiled down now, absent of artifice. Eyes full of panic and fear, mouth gaping, all composure and cunning gone. Serpentine grace. Calculating stare. Devil-soft voice. Gone. Gone. Gone.

Under my attentive hands, Moriarty is no more. This is Jim—the real Jim, honest as he’s ever been, teetering here on the edge of death. 

And he is absolutely gorgeous.

Spittle gathers at the corners of his mouth, foam bubbles pushed out by flapping tongue and gnashing teeth. His face turns mottled purple. A blood vessel bursts, threading red across the white of his eye. 

This is real.

This is real.

.

.

.

_Oh Jesus fuck, this is real._

I jump back, stumbling out of the fog of rage and into untethered panic. Jim doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. His eyes are glassy. Empty. 

For one horrible, endless moment, I picture this world without him—a vast expanse of grey, a dusty road leading nowhere. I want to scream. I want to slam my head against the wall. All I can do is moan his name. 

_“_ Jim … Jim. I didn’t mean it. _Jim.”_

Then the body, suddenly no longer _just_ a body, rasps a violent intake of air, and— _holy Christ—_ he’s breathing again. He’s alive. 

He’s okay.

I fall to my knees and collapse onto his lap, arms bracketing his hips. I nuzzle my face into the dip of his thighs, breathing in the acrid scent of wool tinged sour by struggle. I’m afraid he’ll try to push me away. He wheezes instead, head bent toward me, ragged breath brushing against my neck. I hear the stutter-hitch of a broken word as his diaphragm lopes back into rhythm.

“Suh—” A coughing fit overtakes him. Then another. 

Sweat and blood and tears perfume the air. I fill my lungs as he fills his. His coughing has subsided, but he doesn’t try to speak again. 

I should get him some water. 

I’m not leaving this spot.

With a shaking hand, he cards through my hair, and I shudder at the touch. My neck and spine are exposed—inviting a blow. The way he’s stroking me, I imagine he must still have some affection for me. Maybe he’ll do it quick, like putting down a pet dog gone rabid. I know that’s not likely. It will probably be drawn-out. Painful. I don’t care. I don’t care. 

“So,” he says at last, and something in his voice gives me the courage to look up. “This is slumming it, huh?”

He chuckles as he wipes the tears from the corners of his eyes. 

“Well, I did say I wanted the full experience.”

I break then, a bark of laughter that cracks on a sob. He laughs louder, amused by his own joke. Maybe more amused by my tears. Fuck. Even if I live, I am never going to live this down. To my surprise, he says nothing—leaving me to get myself under control without taking the obvious potshot.

We hover here, watching each other uncertainly. Caught in a moment, suspended in time. If I get up and dust myself off, if I leave this spot, I’m sure I’ll shatter it. I’m afraid of what comes next. As crazy as it sounds, I think he is, too.

“Were you really going to kill me?” he asks, after a long time.

“Yes.” 

“Get it out of your system?”

“Yes.”

He nods in a way I can’t interpret. Then he takes me by the wrist—with his good hand, the one not cradled awkwardly against his chest—and sets my palm on his lap, encouraging me to feel the hard bulge beneath the fabric. I choke back my surprise.

“I haven’t,” he says by way of explanation. “Gotten it out of my system, that is.”

Jesus, could the two of us be any more fucked? Knowing we’re cracked doesn’t change anything, though. I mean, a better man would resist the urges suddenly stirring, would find some healthy way to deal with leftover adrenaline and angst.

I’m not a better man.

Experimentally, I press my palm down, feeling his prick rise to meet me. When I cup him through the layers of wool and cotton, he groans and whispers, “Come here.” I push myself up between his legs, though I’m uncertain exactly where “here” is. 

He tugs on my chin, pulling my mouth to his, and I’m so stunned I almost miss it. I almost let the moment slip past me, let it crawl into a foxhole, never to be seen again. I’m too busy remembering my first aborted attempt at kissing him—the swift punch that followed, the unspoken warning that something worse would happen next time. I’m trying to suss out what’s changed, why he would do this now. _Especially_ now. And I’m wondering if we’ll ever do this again, negotiating silent deals with any god or devil listening to please, please make it so.

All of this mental flotsam and jetsam cluttering my head, and I nearly miss the thing itself.

Nearly.

Then it’s lips and teeth and tongues, and I’m not missing a bit of it. He cups his hand around the back of my neck, holding me in place. 

_Like I have anywhere else to be._

We kiss, a soft kind of antagonism that only edges into discomfort when he bites my lip or pulls at my hair. It’s tame compared to what’s come before, and I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Keep waiting for the pain. I’d let him hurt me if he wanted. Seems to be what he always wants. I stroke his face, thumb caressing his cheekbone and fingertips cradling his skull. I want to touch him, yes. I want to feel him. But it’s also a cue, an invitation. Gentleness of this sort is sure to inspire violence. I hold my breath, but there’s no discipline forthcoming. He just groans, leans into my touch, and deepens the kiss.

It’s too much. It aches and burns. I shake my head minutely, fighting the crushing affection. The corrosive tenderness. This won’t last, the way he is now, all soft and needy. It’s probably a cruel trick, but even if it’s not, even if he means it right now, it won’t last— _I know this._ I can’t bring myself to stop it, but I can’t stand it, either. 

All I can do is dull the edge, distract myself from the destruction to come. I slip my hand down to his trousers, fumbling at his belt. When I have him free, untucking him and giving an experimental stroke, Jim gasps and slams his head back into the chair.

“Oh, fuck,” he says through clenched teeth. “Seb.” Eyes open and locked on me, it seems like he’s got nothing to hide.

_Jesus, that hurts almost more than the kiss_.

He drives his hips up, pushing his cock between the loose ring of my fingers. Then with a low, eager growl, he takes a fistful of my shirt and pulls me back to his mouth.

And I’m done for.

If this is what he wants, I’ll give it to him. No more resisting.

He doesn’t seem to mind the clatter of teeth as I rise to meet him. Doesn’t mind the awkward angle or the sloppy strokes as I distractedly unhitch my own trousers and push them down and off. He doesn’t mind the way my mouth migrates to his jaw, then down to the sensitive skin of his neck, kissing the bruises just above his rumpled shirt collar. And when I tuck my hips between his legs, hand gripped loosely around the both of us, and press forward with a long, steady stroke, he doesn’t mind that at all.

He accepts it like a man used to an equal exchange of pleasure, the familiar cold-hearted sadist nowhere to be seen. I know he’ll be back, so I don’t expend too much energy missing him.

We slide together, rough friction eased slightly by the drops of pre-come beading at the heads of our cocks. It’s not quite enough for comfort, and I’m just considering the most expedient options to rectify the situation when Jim whimpers.

Far as I know, he’s never made a sound like that in his life.

_Is he fucking broken? What the fuck have I done?_

“Jim?” My strokes stutter to a halt, but he admonishes me with a growl.

“Up,” he commands, and something of his usual tone is back, though with a distinctly desperate edge. _“Up.”_

“Okay, hold on.” Position adjustment is great and all, but we have a certain friction issue to deal with here.

I disentangle myself from his grasp and grab the bottle of lube from under my bed. When he sees what I’ve got, he nods in approval and guides me on top of him, sitting with my thighs draped around his hips.

It’s a few moments before we’re slick and I have both of us in hand again.

“This okay?” 

Thing is, Jim always calls the shots, always takes the lead, and I’m not sure I’m getting this right.

“Yeah,” he says, but he stops me before I can make a move. 

“Just one thing,” he murmurs uncertainly, like a little girl about to ask mum for a lolly, and I swear to fucking Christ I’m _this close_ to taking him to get his head examined. Maybe my attempt on his life did more damage than I realised.

“What is it?” I ask, when he’s fallen mute again. I mean, I’m sitting here, literally holding our cocks. What more does he want?

Silently, he unlatches my left hand from where it’s clasped around his suit lapel and, in a parody of my earlier attack, draws it up to his neck. _What?_ I start to pull away, but he holds me there, firmly—showing me how much pressure is okay.

It’s nowhere close to cutting off his air, but neither is it a gentle caress. He means to feel it.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And I get it. I know what it’s like to want to feel it. I know what it’s like to want someone else to fucking be in charge. Maybe he’s always wanted this and never said, or maybe he’s only just realised. Either way, I can do this. I’m his man.

…

When I’m dressed again, and he’s wiped away the worst of the mess—that familiar murderous scowl returning to his face at last ( _“This suit is worth more than your life, you fucking cretin.”_ )—he tells me to get packed, we’re taking a trip. I nod, moving to retrieve my duffel from the closet. We don’t talk about the massive role reversal that just happened, or the way he looked when he came. We don’t talk about how I gathered him in my arms, or how long it took me to catch my breath afterwards.

You can bet your fucking life we never will. 

He just tells me there’s work to do and I better be ready by the time the car pulls up in ten, or he’ll have my spleen on a platter. So I pack on the double and try not to let my smile show.

 

 

....

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...
> 
> Still with me? Being away from you (and these boys) for so long has been harder than I can say. But I've learned the Mormor fandom is certainly a loyal bunch of misfits, so I'm excited to hear your thoughts on this.
> 
> Thank you to all my new tumblr followers. I have a feeling this little fic has something to do with that.
> 
> And as always, thank you Marly and Darcysmom for your ever-present support and words of wisdom.
> 
> xoxo,  
> s
> 
> **EDIT 9/4/14: Amazing artwork by artofthelord (http://artofthelord.tumblr.com/post/94071405517/i-nearly-miss-the-thing-itself-nearly-then-its) and Hippano (http://hippano.tumblr.com/post/95476823347/commissioned-by-this-simple-mind-for-her)**


	11. Playing the Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’s so beautiful, every unbalanced inch of him. He’s lightning and smoke, gunpowder and axle grease, magician and monster, and right now it almost feels as though he were mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may know I received some really difficult news at the end of August. I was in a bit of a tailspin for a while there, and the last thing I wanted to do was spend time in my head (which, if you didn't know, is the primary task of an author). Things aren't better, BUT I'm in a better place about it all.
> 
> I lost my voice for a time. I don't know if I really found it again, but this chapter is the result of two months of struggle, and it's what I have, so I hope you'll take it.
> 
> In the mean time, some really lovely things have been done for me, and I want to share. My dear Piepie (Maëlibé), made a fantastic piece based on the previous chapter (http://artofthelord.tumblr.com/post/94071405517/i-nearly-miss-the-thing-itself-nearly-then-its) and the awesome Jim below (http://artofthelord.tumblr.com/post/102199784652/jims-waiting-for-me-when-i-make-my-way-out-of).
> 
> Vanessa, brilliant mind behind bashermoriarty and my darling girl, made two extraordinary posters for me. One is now on the title page (http://bashermoriarty.tumblr.com/post/95027706010/p-r-e-t-t-y-p-s-y-c-h-o-b-o-y-by) and the other you can see below (http://bashermoriarty.tumblr.com/post/101935944650/pretty-psycho-boy-by-this-simple-mind-trailer).
> 
> I commissioned the amazing Jen (Hippano) to draw something for this silly little fic, and she came up with two fabulous pieces (http://hippano.tumblr.com/post/95019696746/oops-i-just-spent-the-day-reading-ten-chapters-of) and (http://hippano.tumblr.com/post/95476823347/commissioned-by-this-simple-mind-for-her)
> 
> Finally, Ren of ohsodirnty.tumblr.com put together a fanvid/trailer for this story, and I'm pretty breathless with wonder (http://ohsodirnty.tumblr.com/post/101783454274/this-simple-minds-pretty-psycho-boy)
> 
> It's been a while, I know, but I hope you'll jump right in. Thank you for being patient, and thank you for all the love.
> 
> xoxo,  
> s  
> 

[(x)](http://bashermoriarty.tumblr.com/post/101935944650/pretty-psycho-boy-by-this-simple-mind-trailer)

 

 [(x)](http://artofthelord.tumblr.com/post/102199784652/jims-waiting-for-me-when-i-make-my-way-out-of)

 

 

 

 

 

We’re on a schedule. Taking a trip.

Broken glass crunches underfoot as I follow Jim down the stairs and out to the kerb, where little Ms Benz awaits us. Boss swallows a handful of Paracetamol dry and crosses to the passenger door.

“You drive,” he says, lobbing both the keys and a glare. “ _Somebody_ threw a tantrum and completely fucked my shifting hand.” 

I nod, suspecting my silence will be better received than any false contrition, but I’m having a hard time keeping the giggles in check. Bossman is on edge as it is; no way he’s going to appreciate me cracking up at every unintended double entendre.

_Fucked his shifting hand, indeed_.

I’m still a bit lightheaded from the morning’s events, but I’m pretty sure he just referred to my attempt on his life as a ‘tantrum’. 

_Really?_  

And what’s that make him—some toddler who threw sand in my eyes? Close enough, I suppose. The man certainly has an infantile sense of self-importance.

We settle in and I start the engine, coughing to clear my voice of any lingering humour. “Right. Where to?”

“Doc Nadeer’s. Then onto Cardiff.” 

And with three little words, every ounce of giddy amusement I’m feeling turns to mud in my gut. I must give myself away, because Jim shifts in his seat. From the corner of my eye, I catch the deliberate tilt of his head, and my grip tightens on the gear stick.

“ _Problem?_ ”

I wipe the grimace from my face and shake my head. I don’t know what business he’s got in Cardiff, but the way he’s methodically flexing and relaxing his right fist tells me it’s none of mine. Right. This ain’t a case where the driver gets to voice an opinion on the destination. 

“’Course not,” I say with a shrug. “Lovely time of year to visit Wales.”

I mean, when isn’t it a lovely time to visit fucking Wales? First opportunity to join the boss on a job outside of London and it’s not the Parisian Catacombs or the spice markets of Istanbul; no, I get the stinking docks of _Cardiff_. Bully for me.  

I shift into gear and the engine rumbles as I gun it towards the doc’s place. We bid farewell to Hackney, and after a minute, Jim lowers his window. I follow suit, amused by the way his usually-tidy hair whips in the wind.

Fuck it. Jim didn’t kill me (in spite of some pretty strong incentive), we just had a fantastic shag, I’m gainfully employed and out of that stinking tenement for the first time in weeks. 

Life is good.

…

Our visit to the home office of Jim’s personal physician, Dr Shanti Nadeer, is a quick, ugly job, Bossman staring daggers at me between hissed curses and the usual threats on my life. When she sees the damage, the doc gives lip service to taking care of this properly at hospital. Jim tells her if she needs x-rays before resetting a measly couple of broken fingers, perhaps he ought to be in the market for new medical staff. That makes Doc clam up right quick, and she sets to work. You gotta feel for her, though. There’s a lot that could go wrong here, and if she fucks up his hand, you know Jim isn’t going to waste a second wishing he’d taken more judicious action. No, this is on her—unreasonable demand or no. I just hope she’s up to the task.

At one point during the proceedings, Nadeer spots the fresh scratches decorating my face and neck, and she suffers an obvious, awkward moment of indecision. She hasn’t been directed to attend to patient number two, but I assume professional obligation demands her concern.

“Shall I take a look at those when we’re done?” she asks, nodding towards me.

“What? Tiger’s new stripes?” Jim says, grimacing through the pain. “No, he earned those fair and square. Let him bleed.”

I wasn’t expecting medical attention, but I had been toying with the idea of swiping some disinfectant for later. Clearly, that’s not on. Infection is a risk, however slight, but I suppose seeing me feverish and in pain would be the height of hilarity to Jim. Small payback, all considered.

I know the real payback is yet to come. You don’t attempt to wipe Jim Moriarty from this earth and just _walk away_. But somehow, knowing the true horror that awaits doesn’t fill me with dread. I mean, there’s a morbid inevitability about the whole thing. No chance of begging off punishment, so I might as well enjoy the moment and take my licks when they come. Reckless maybe, but hell, I’m no stranger to playing the fool. 

I’m in love with a fucking psychopath. Of course I’m a fool. 

Oh yeah, so there’s that. Flying into a murderous rage can shift things into focus, and my 20/20 moment came somewhere between Jim’s breathless death-stare and his magical revival. It doesn’t change anything. Certainly doesn’t help. I’m in love with a man not only incapable of returning the feeling, but one who would take enormous pleasure in humiliating me, were he to find out. A man who will likely lead me, through intention or happenstance, towards a brutal, bloody end. Anything I do from here on out is rational by comparison.

“Why do you look so sullen?” Pretty-psycho-boy snaps. “I’m the one being cracked apart and reassembled here.”

I feign a sudden interest in the fancy diplomas lining the doc’s wall, readjusting my expression so I don’t resemble a giant piss-baby.

“Me?” I manage with nary a quiver. “I’m just wondering what playlist you’re going to subject me to on the way to Cardiff. Any more of that K-pop shite and my eardrums might explode.”

“My car. My choice,” he growls. “Anyway, you have the musical acumen of Helen Keller, so you can shut your gob.”

I chuckle, amused in spite of myself. “That’s rich, coming from the man who idolizes the Bee Gees. You know, you’d do well to listen to some quality music every now and then. I might even show you my dance moves, given the proper soundtrack.”

I rock out a little uncoordinated white-guy shuffle in my seat, and Jim doubles over, laughing.

“No, don’t!” Nadeer warns, but it’s too late, and Bossman yelps in pain. 

“Fuck! Don’t make me laugh! I’m getting my bones reset here.” His expression turns deeply sour, like a child with no intention of ever smiling again.

In spite of the interruption, Doc does manage to finish working on Jim’s fingers. She gives a cursory look at the handprint blossoming deep purple across his neck, but there’s no permanent damage and nothing for it, so she leaves it to heal along with the rest of his bruises. She snaps off her gloves to signal completion of her work, and Jim inspects his new bandages with reserved approval. 

Between her clipped murmurs and brusque efficiency throughout the visit, she’s done a piss-poor job of hiding her displeasure. I don’t know what bothers her more: that the boss has needed such regular attention these past weeks, or that all evidence points to his trusted right-hand man having caused the damage this time around. Could be the tell tale stains on Jim’s clothes, or the fact that she’s alone in the house with two less-than-stand-up blokes. I suppose there are loads of reasons for that frown to plant itself on her face.

I flash her a reassuring smile, remembering her kindness to me when Jim was laid up and out of it, but the gesture only sets her scowl more firmly in place. Can’t hold it against her. I’m sure I cut a more sympathetic figure as the dutiful companion than the abusive lover. 

“Use these a few times a day until the swelling goes down,” she says, handing Jim a stash of cold packs. “And give yourself some time to _heal_. No strenuous use of that hand for at least four weeks.”

“I’m sure Sebastian will see to my every need, won’t you, Killer?”

Nadeer looks nonplussed, but Jim pays her no mind. The comment clearly wasn’t intended for her.

“Of course,” I lob back with a shrug. “Circumstances permitting.”

It’s cheeky, for sure, but I figure kowtowing at this point won’t help me anyway. The open expanse of Jim’s forehead shrinks as his eyebrows lift skyward, and I feel a tingle of excitement, a rush of danger. 

“Circumstances? Ri-ight,” he intones. “Amazing what circumstances might arise when one is properly motivated.” 

He licks his lips, a small smile forming at the corners of his mouth, and readjusts his shirt sleeve over the brace. You learn to read things, like Jim’s slow, purposeful posturing. It’s the calm before the storm, and I brace myself for thunderclap and rain.

Ever so casually, he says, “I once saw the beloved dog of a young boy pitched from a fourth-storey window … because of _circumstances_. Poor beast howled and howled and didn’t survive the night. It was a rather gruesome scene, as you might imagine, and the boy could be heard crying for blocks.” 

I can imagine, more than imagine. I’ve seen grown men thrown from that high, and the result is … messy. But more than that, I can picture a slight child with black hair and blacker eyes creeping towards the window, pup in hand. I wonder what someone could have done to inspire such an irreparable, horrific form of punishment. Jim is watching me intently, coal irises shining in anticipation. His face twists, and I read the tissue-thin empathy before I hear it. 

“Parents beside themselves, neighbourhood in a tizzy. I’m told the boy never really recovered. Refused to leave the house. Needed therapy for years.” He frowns. “Tragic all around.”

Nadeer has backed herself into the far corner, trying to make herself invisible. Jim ignores her and, with a flippant wave of his hand, wipes the scene away as one might clear the fog from a mirror. 

“But I’ve always wondered, if Fido had instead been Boots the cat, would he have fared any better? They say cats always land on their feet—do you suppose that’s true, Tiger? Or would we have had a tabby pancake regardless?” He sighs, smoothing down the front of his coat and re-pinning the stained tie. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now, circumstances being what they were. In any case, it was a valuable lesson in canine aeronautics.”

The doc is stunned silent, and I’ve got images of bloody pavement rolling through my head. Message received. I pull myself from the chair and move to open the door.

“Jesus, Boss,” I murmur as he approaches. “Remind me never to ask you for a bedtime story.”

He chuckles, pausing just before passing through the threshold. I stand my ground as he raises the freshly bandaged hand and gently pats my cheek, fingers trailing over my scratched face. “You’re amusing, Sebastian. And the king does enjoy a good jester.

“For a time.”

… 

As creepy and loquacious he was at the doc’s, Jim is silent and detached on our drive out of town. Outer-London suburbs a sad grey blur, we barrel down the M4 towards Cardiff—left to our own devices, and in my case, lost to my own thoughts. While I ponder the hopelessness of my situation and predict the specific manner of my demise, Jim makes use of his time in the passenger seat, surprisingly productive with only his mobile and his non-dominant hand at his disposal. Between the occasional call, he taps away at the screen—sending terse threats to world leaders, maybe, or drafting his criminal manifesto. Could be he’s just ordering a new pair of trainers or confirming next month’s dental appointment. Not like I know what goes on behind the curtain, though I’m starting to think I’ve seen more of the Wizard than most.

Once we hit the edge of town, Jim directs me to what is undoubtedly the most expensive hotel in Cardiff, a place lousy with impractical, bubble-shaped furniture intended to scream modern elegance. He takes an executive suite and puts me up in an adjoining junior, and I wonder, briefly, if this is the kind of place one would attempt to disappear a body. I decide I’m at least safe for present when Jim gives me instructions to clean up and meet back in the lobby in twenty.

As usual, I’m meant to guess what might be required for this job outside of my sparkling personality, so I keep things simple with a knife tucked into the strap on my ankle, a set of brass knuckles in my pocket, and a discreet piece at the small of my back. 

Jim’s waiting for me when I make my way out of the lift, wearing dark jeans, a checked pink button-down, a prissy little bow-tie, and black braces. He’s freshly-showered and smelling clean, hair artfully arranged into a pompadour. Clearly he’s in costume, but for what, I haven’t the slightest. There was something debased and decadent about his sweaty, post-coital scent, and I can’t help but miss the thoroughly-shagged vibe he was rocking throughout the drive. He gives me a once-over—pursing lips and chastising me for what could be any number of failings—but he says nothing. Just rolls his eyes and passes me a large green case. It’s heavy and unwieldy, the kind of oversized portfolio you might see art students lugging around campus.

With a nod, we’re on our way. To a meeting? A hit? Jim’s personal brand of bloody performance art? Who the fuck ever knows. I could ask him what we’re doing, but chances are it’ll only tick him off, and he won’t answer me anyway. If I’m honest, half the fun of this job is not knowing whether I’ll spend the day facing down an angry gang of Neo-Nazis or playing babysitter to some talk show host’s hairless cat.

_Oh, God._ I shudder, remembering our last real conversation. _Don’t think about cats …_  

We walk a few blocks through city centre, passing fast-food chains, car parks, and behemoth slabs of concrete rising skyward. Fucking lovely. Jim keeps to a rapid clip, oblivious of me and my struggle in manoeuvering the crowded pavement with a gigantic bloody case in my hand. In the end, I say fuck it to the polite approach and simply plow down anyone who gets in my way. Before I’ve had to knock over too many pedestrians, Jim slows his pace, and we round the corner of a cobble-lined street. 

“This shouldn’t be too difficult for you, loverboy,” he whispers, taking my hand and pulling me through an open door. “Play along.”

I trail stupidly behind, flummoxed by the sudden intimacy and anxious at having no hands free to reach my weapons. We’re in a small, airy gallery, deserted but for a single figure in the corner. The walls are lined with abstract photography, and pedestals featuring sculptural pieces are scattered about. There’s no immediate threat, so I take a breath and wait to see what unfolds. Jim shifts closer to my side, rubbing his thumb intimately across mine, and blood rushes straight to my groin. 

_Oh, for fuck’s sake._

“You know I adore you, Colleen, but the drive out here really is _murder_ ,” Jim intones, all swish and lisp.

I push through the lust and confusion, catching up half a beat too slowly. This place, the case, Jim’s body language—the cues are clear, though it’s a frankly insulting parody he’s putting on. He told me to play along, so I plant a mild smile on my face and lean into my “boyfriend’s” side, feeling no need to turn up the volume louder than that. 

“William!” 

A tall, willowy woman crosses to us, arms stretched wide. She’s got the art-scene look down: cat-eye glasses, fitted black clothes, and a severe grey bob that doesn’t quite jibe with the warm smile lining her face. Hands on Jim’s shoulders, she makes to kiss his cheek, but suddenly stops, eyes wide, expression horrified.

“Darling! What on earth happened to your face?”

He brushes off her concern, and I adjust to a world in which Jim allows someone to receive him this affectionately. I mean, he didn’t even flinch when she touched him. Of course, this isn’t _Jim_ ; this is another man entirely. And the man she knows, William, could be perfectly pleasant, her dearest friend, someone celebrated for rescuing puppies (rather than pitching them out of windows).

Whoever he is, he’s the kind of bloke who takes to motherly concern with a pathetic eagerness. Colleen is looking him over, fussing at each newly discovered horror—the fading scars and rainbow-coloured bruises, the braced wrist and broken fingers—while Jim basks, a tragic figure.

“Really, now,” she says, voice like ice. “Who did this to you, and where do they sleep?”

The lady has some bite, I’ll give her that. A chuckle escapes me, and she whips her head around, taking notice of me for the first time. She recoils slightly—put off by my scars, I assume. Propriety demands a swift recovery, which arrives with a tight smile.

“How rude of me, fussing over William like that and not even introducing myself. I’m Colleen Vanderveer.”

I set the case down and shake her extended hand, letting Jim finish the introduction. I mean, not to sound too existential, but I have no idea who I am.

“This is Sebastian—my partner.” 

Blood crashes through my veins, heart beating a wild rata-tat-tat. Even make-believe, hearing Jim use _that_ word with that particular inflection has a dizzying effect.

“But really, I like to call him _my hero_.”

_Little fucker_. 

The warm-fuzzy feeling leaves me in the wind, and I clamp down, teeth involuntarily grinding. He just couldn’t resist, could he?

“Oh, I don’t know about hero,” I say, squeezing Jim’s good hand and feeling the satisfying crunch of bone against bone. “But it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“He’s being modest, Colleen. Don’t believe a word he says,” Jim grits out, pulling his hand free. He snuggles into my side, wrapping his arms around my torso. It must read as an intimate, comforting gesture, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he’s digging his knuckles into my spine. “Sebastian is a decorated soldier … more shiny medals than Lady Gaga has wigs. He’s just back from Afghanistan—and thank goodness, too. He’s the reason I’m alive.”

_Oh, for fuck’s sake—_

“Really?” Colleen shakes her head in disbelief. “What on earth happened?”

I’m sure he’s got a ready explanation, but I doubt _needed an excuse to wipe out the local competition_ is going to be it.

“The usual,” Jim says with a bitter sigh. “Boys out for a night, toss back a few too many, decide their cocks aren’t big enough, and go on the hunt for something they can punch.” 

Jim’s dropped the lisp now, and from the edge in his voice, I wonder if this story hits a little close to home. Hell, when I first met him, I thought he was some harmless little thing. How many people have underestimated him, saw a target when they should have seen the danger lurking underneath that pretty face?

“I’d been out dancing, and I was wrapping it up for the night. Walked out of the club just as they passed, covered in glitter and screaming ‘twink’. They must have thought it was Christmas morning.”

“Oh, no.”

Jim squeezes into my side, and I rub circles along the back of his neck, all irritation with my petite tyrant forgotten. I know it isn’t real—this is not how Jim got hurt—but, still, it’s an all-too-familiar story. Believable enough as something that _could have_ happened. I want to find these imaginary cock suckers and fucking destroy them.

“At first they were just riling me up a bit, laughing and shouting abuse. I was tired and sloppy, and after they’d followed me three or four blocks, I’d had it. Told them to piss off.” Jim laughs hollowly. “Guess it was the signal they’d been waiting for. One of them jumped in— _bam!_ —and kicked my legs out from under me. I cracked my skull on the pavement, and before I could get up, another had stamped on my hand.” He holds up his braced arm, grimacing, and I feel like I might vomit. “They hauled me off into an alley … I don’t remember much after that.”

“Oh, darling, that’s awful!” Colleen’s eyes brim with tears. She reaches towards Jim, but he’s wound himself around me, leaving no room for intrusion. At a loss for something to do with her hands, she brings them together in prayer position and touches the tips of her fingers to her mouth. “I can’t even imagine.”

Jim takes a deep breath and looks up at me, uninhibited devotion shining in his eyes. I _know_ it’s an act, but _Jesus fuck_ it’s a good one.

“Sebastian doesn’t like to talk about it—he’s so humble. But he told me what happened after I passed out, and it’s just …” He pauses, struggling to find the words. “Do you ever feel like someone’s looking out for you?”

He’s really pouring it on. Colleen is rapt, eyes unblinking and jaw hanging open. 

“I didn’t believe in that stuff before; I’ve never really been religious. But I believe an angel was watching over me that night.”

Jim reaches up, brushing my cheek with his mangled hand. He’s smiling, expression open and adoring. “I was a stranger, nobody to him. But Seb saved me.”

Give the man an Oscar. He’s so fucking convincing, I almost believe it’s true. Almost see the oil-slicked alley they drag him into, see the crowd of bodies as they punch and kick, feel myself plunge into the fray, breaking arms and cracking heads. I can feel his body in my arms as I carry him to safety, feel him mouthing against my neck, “Call me Jim.”

Fantasy. Delusion.

Except, it’s not. I _did_ save him. Whether it was a set-up or not, I went into that basement and hauled him out of there. Breathing. Alive. How many hits have I taken for him? I’d take them all again, because he’s Jim. I’d take bullets for him, because I wouldn’t be here without him. That’s not hyperbole. I crawled back to London broken and tired, sure I wouldn’t last the month. But I did. I made it, because he gave me meaning and purpose: blood and fire, violence and rage. He made me crave. Made me want to live.

He says I saved him, but really—

“You saved me.”

Jim’s eyes go wide, and I replay the words in my head, blood running like ice through my veins.

_Oh no. Oh fuck._

I might as well have handed him the dagger myself. It’s too late to take it back, and I have none of Jim’s guile. He knows I meant it. For a split second, the reptilian smile flashes—he’s already calculating how to use this against me—and then the mask is back in place, and he’s all hearts and rainbows. 

“Do you know, I think I did.” 

William might be teasing me good-naturedly, but Jim is performing a cruel dissection. He lifts up on the balls of his feet, and I tense, reading his intention. 

_Not now, please. Jesus, let me pull myself together._  

But there’s no escape, and his mouth touches mine, lips parting. You’ll never find me asking for this. You’ll never see me reaching out and searching for Jim’s kiss. But resist it? Might as well try to make the world stop turning. 

His teeth graze the inside of my lip, slicing painfully, and I give over. I pull him roughly into an embrace, the taste of iron mingling on our tongues. The kiss is fierce and deep, much too intimate for public consumption, but fuck it. The fact is, it’s still so new, I’ll take it any way it’s offered—in jest or scorn, as performance or revenge. He can cut me open, promise me pain and destruction, and I’ll just smile and bleed.

Maybe that’s my lot, punishment for past deeds. Karma sure is a bitch.

When we finally break apart, I feel scrambled, and Jim smiles knowingly. Then he turns towards our audience, laughing, like he’s only now remembered Colleen is there. Like it wasn’t all just a show.

“Sorry.” A blush rises to his cheeks. “Sometimes we get carried away. He’s hard to resist, you know?”

Colleen is flustered, eyes pointedly averted. She licks her lips, then abruptly halts, as though aware of the implication.

“So, what happened? Sebastian, did you …” She dares a glance, searching. “Call the police? Get help?”

“Oh, no. He put them in hospital.” Jim says it with such relish, it’s clear there’s very little of William speaking anymore. “Heard my shouts from the street and came plowing in, all righteous anger and fury. He has a very strong sense of justice, and six-on-one didn’t seem like a very fair fight.”

“You mean to say, you took on six of them … by _yourself_? Oh my God.”

I cough, mumbling a bit of garbled nonsense. I know we’re playacting, but I’ve no interest in taking credit for make-believe heroics. I wish we’d just get to fucking business already. Surely, there’s something shady or bloody we could be attending to.

“Look how _modest_. He’s so embarrassed, he can’t even talk.”

Colleen sighs, shaking out the tension from her body. “Well, I’m just relieved you’re okay, all considering. It seems you’ve both been very lucky.”

Jim cackles. “Take a beating, and get a boyfriend out of it. Lucky, indeed.” He dislodges himself from my side and moves to pick up the long-forgotten case. “Anyway, you don’t want to dwell on all that. Let me show you the latest.”

…

In the end, there’s nothing shady or bloody to attend to at all.

Instead, we manage an exchange entirely on the up-and-up. Turns out, William Iago is a gifted painter. His art is morbid and dark, and I’m no critic, but I’d hang it on my wall. Who knows, given all of Jim’s talents, maybe he even did the work himself, though he could easily have acquired it from outside sources. Good old Billy-boy will be featured in a group show of up-and-comers in Colleen’s gallery next month, and our business—signing contracts and delivering canvases—moves swiftly and without incident.

In fact, the situation is so utterly lacking in danger, it begs the question of why I need to be here at all. Why drag me along to Cardiff, put me up in a fancy hotel, and parade me around as his hero boyfriend? Anyone could have driven him here, if that’s what he needed. Anyone could have carried the case.

So was that scene for Colleen or for me? I’ve got no clue—and that’s not a feeling I’m overly fond of.

None of this addresses why Bossman is running around Britain playing the twink and peddling art. Likely, it’s groundwork for a plan that will come to fruition months or even years from now. It seems everything the man does has a purpose. Everything is connected, but hell if I know how.

There’s not much time to ponder this, anyway. As soon as we wrap up with Colleen, Jim leads us out the same way he lead us in: hand-in-hand.

For the first block, I think nothing of it. It’s best to keep the cover going as long as we might have an audience, and if holding Jim’s hand sells the scene, that’s what I’ll do. At the second block, I loosen my grip. I figure we’re out of Colleen’s view, and I don’t want to be caught holding on past my welcome. When we round the third block, I start to wonder what the fuck is going on, and move to pull my hand away. He tightens his fingers around mine. 

“Don’t.”

_Okay …_

So the charade goes on. There’s no explanation, but I don’t need to understand the why to follow an order. As we make our way back to the hotel, I feign the same casual affection he’s projecting and keep my eyes peeled for unseen danger. 

We hit the lobby, and Jim’s still got stars in his eyes and a warm palm against mine. We haven’t spoken—I’m not sure I have the voice to speak anyway. The incomprehensible intimacy is doing funny things to me. 

When we reach the lifts, Jim releases me at last. l’m sure things will return to normal and he’ll start haranguing me any moment now. But the carriage arrives, and he pushes me into the empty box, pressing me into the corner, hip-to-hip.

“Jim?” I wheeze, utterly lost, voice pathetically high.

“Oh, is it Jim finally? No more ‘Sir’? No more ‘Boss’?” He licks a stripe along my Adam’s apple, then bites.

An electrical pulse zip-zings along the point of contact, shorting out rational thought. “I’m sorry, Boss—”

“No, don’t do that,” he says, releasing my tender skin. “I like it when you call me Jim.”

He’s grinding against my rapidly rising cock, looking up at me with a dirty smile. His hands have wandered to my belt, tugging it loose, like he might try to take me here in the lift.

“What are we—Jim, what are you _doing_?”

The bell dings, doors opening, and he backs out of the box, expression sullen. I step into the hallway just before the doors slide closed, searching for an explanation. He’s fucking with me. He must be. He can’t have suddenly decided to act normal, pursuing me with no strings, no games. _No mockery_.

If I’m being toyed with, I want to know. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Giving you what you want, Tiger.”

“I don’t—”

“Lie to me all you want, but you really shouldn’t lie to yourself. There’s nothing at the end of that road but madness.” The earnest set of his eyes is all wrong. I don’t understand.

“I thought we found something this morning. Something new. Am I wrong?”

When I don’t respond, he sighs heavily and slides the keycard into his door. “Look, I want you, Sebastian, and I’m inviting you into my room. Take it or leave it.”

Is he seducing me? For real? Not demanding or cajoling, but asking? Is that what I want? 

Jim pushes into his room and slides out of sight as the heavy door swings back towards me. He wants me, and the door is closing. He’s inviting me in, and the door is closing.

My hand catches the frame at the last moment, and I step inside. I will regret this; there is no question.

“Okay, I’ll take it.”

…

I’ve seen Jim before—we’ve been fucking around for months, of course I’ve seen him. Lean forearms and strong thighs. Rosy nipples and shadowed navel. The surprising, adorable paunch of his belly and the delicious hollow of his throat. I’ve seen the soft trail of hair leading down his stomach to the larger thatch nestled around his cock. I’ve seen that, too, lots of that. But never, not once, have I seen him like this.

Not a stitch on him, every inch of pale skin on display, legs spread and eyes closed as I sink into him. I’ve never seen him scrabble for sheets, or strain each muscle from toes to temple as I first retreat and then push slowly forward again. I’ve never seen him take a deep, calming breath that resonates all the way down to where I’m buried inside him or watched him silently plead for more, less, more, _more._

I’ve never fucked Jim. I’ve certainly never made love to Jim. I’m not saying that’s what’s happening now, but if everything that’s come before has been rooted in antagonism and mistrust, power plays on top of power plays, then this—this moment here—is an entirely new thing.

“You don’t … have to be … so gentle,” he says through rocking strokes, and I think I might explode.

Where did he come from, this beautiful man, all vulnerable sighs and desperate moans? Why is he here? Is this what time and loyalty have bought me, or is it just the cruelest of jokes?

_I don’t care_ , I think as desire rampages through me, crashing about like a beast I’ve no intention of taming. “I don’t care,” I whisper as I drive my hips home, over and over again. “I don’t care.” 

I take Jim’s cock in hand, stroking in time with the swing of my hips, and his eyes fly open, face a mask of stunned euphoria. His chest is flushed, ivory skin now mottled pink, ribs heaving over bursting lungs. He looks up, fighting fluttering lids to meet my gaze, and something inside me cracks open.

_Watch me bleed, pretty Jim. Bathe in it if you like. Just please never stop looking at me like that._

“Come here,” he says. This time I know exactly what he wants, and I don’t hesitate to give it to him.

I lean forward, his jutting erection squeezed between us, and take the kiss being offered. It’s short, messy, full of passion. Our teeth clack as he wraps his arms around me, holding me close. I’m breathless and dizzy and … dreaming. I must be fucking dreaming.

He’s so beautiful, every unbalanced inch of him. He’s lightning and smoke, gunpowder and axle grease, magician and monster, and right now it almost feels as though he were mine.

It’s too raw, that thought. It stings like an exposed nerve. I can’t fall down that rabbit hole, and anyway, I need to move. I _have_ to. I leverage myself back up, clasping his cock and thrusting hard. His head snaps against the pillow, face frozen in a silent scream. And then his breath catches up to the sensation, and he howls in pleasure. 

_Hold on. Hold on._

Every inch of me is tingling, ready to burn, ready to explode. Jim reaches for me, clutching any part of my skin within his grasp—arms, chest, neck—like he’s desperate to hold on, too.

“Oh, Seb, I feel …” he pants as we rock together. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand. I’ve never—” Then his eyes are saucers, and he’s trembling and tensing and pulsing into my hand. “Oh, God! Oh, God!”

My world collapses as he flutters around me, and with a gasping cry, I follow him over.

…

“You know, Sebastian,” Jim murmurs. “This is not at all how I thought today would go.”

I’m on my back, lids heavy and eyes unfocused. Jim is propped on my chest, chin resting on forearms. He’s looking pensive, and it appears he’s had a much more rapid recovery than me. I smile back at him, humming. It’s not at all how I imagined this day going, either.

“I thought for sure you’d be leaving this hotel missing some dearly-beloved body part.”

I feel a tremor of apprehension, and my smile vanishes.

“That’s how a proper master trains a bitch, isn’t it? Lay down the law, and make sure the transgression never happens again.”

He hasn’t moved, and the moment, once post-coital and intimate, has turned deadly still. That germ of fear tickling the back of my thoughts all day has found a home, and it is the look in Jim’s eyes: cold, angry, unforgiving. 

“I hope you enjoyed fucking me. I wanted to show you what it could be like, wanted you to have as good as you’d dreamed. Did it work? Did you believe you’d shagged the cruelty out of me?” He pushes himself up to sitting, face carved in cartoonish bliss. _“Oh, Seb, I feel … I don’t understand. I don’t understand. I’ve never—”_

His laugh is horrible, a high-pitched cackle. “Did you believe? You seemed to. I wanted you to feel that, Tiger, because I knew it would make this moment so much sweeter. I knew how much I’d enjoy seeing _that look_ on your face.”

Without warning, Jim throws a leg over my waist, straddling me and pinning my arms. 

“You tried to kill me.” He closes his uninjured hand around my throat, pressing, pressing. “You put your hand on my neck and watched as the life ebbed out of me. You did this, Sebastian. You did this.”

He’s doing it. He’s really going to kill me. My vision goes fuzzy at the corners as my lungs struggle to draw air. I know I should be fighting back, but it just seems so pointless. If Jim wants me dead, it will happen, one way or another. This is right, isn’t it? This is how it’s supposed to end. I knew. I know. And it’s okay.

Jim’s watching in fascination as my mouth gapes and my chest heaves in futile resistance. He’s enjoying it in the way I couldn’t, because it’s not the same for him. This is about balancing the scales, not a desperate cry for connection. This is about revenge, not love.

It’ll be easy, snuffing me out, because he doesn’t care. 

“Do you understand, Sebastian? Do you?”

My head twitches in parody of a nod. I do understand, and I want him to know it’s okay. My lungs are burning now, and my sight is going dim. It’ll be over soon. It’s a relief, honestly.

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You simpering, ignorant fuck! Why are you so goddamn self-destructive?” He bares his teeth with a growl. “Well, I’m not giving you what you want, so you can just forget it.”

Then his hand is gone and the air is rushing in, and my body screams in agony and ecstasy. I don’t understand.

“Look at you! You didn’t even fight back! I could tear you apart—carve you up and make you bleed, but you’d only like that, wouldn’t you? You’d feel _so good_ because you’d know you were getting exactly what you deserved.”

He stands up, pacing. I feel heavy. Immobile.

“Well I’m not your confessor, and I’ve no desire to assist your suicide. Do it yourself, if you’re man enough; otherwise, put that pea you call a brain to use, and stop acting like a fool!”

I feel naked; I am naked. As though reading my mind, Jim crosses to his suitcase and thrusts on a pair of pants. 

“You don’t get to fall apart every time Daddy is mean to you, understand?” He’s gone still now, eerily so. “You are mine. Your trigger finger and your great big cock, I own them. That’s the job, Sebastian, and that’s the _only_ job. You are not a knight in shining armour. I’m not the princess in the castle or the dragon you can tame. Take your romantic dreams and your pretty fairy tales and bury them in a deep, dark hole.”

He looks like the husk of a person. Like the kind of thing a robot with the right tools might create if told to make a man. All the parts and pieces are right, but it’s empty. There’s nothing inside. Jim takes a step forward, those empty eyes watching me.

“Please believe, there is no happily ever after here.”

.

.

.

When the buzzing in my head finally stops and it comes to me, the thing I want to say, the only thing that feels right, I sit up and swallow hard. Nothing to do but just get it out.

“Can I stay here tonight?”

Rage flashes in Jim’s eyes, threatening to engulf us both. “Did you hear _anything_ I said?”

“Yeah. I’m a pathetic, suicidal moron, and you own me. Whatever I thought could be between us is not going to happen. I got it.”

He cocks his head, scowling, and I shrug. I’m not trying to outmanoeuver him. I’m being honest for once.

“I’m naked, the bed is warm, and you haven’t tossed me out yet. Can I stay?”

After a long moment, he nods, and I curl back under the covers. It’s liberating to know where you stand. Hope is a cruel thing, and now that’s gone.

My eyes drift closed. I sleep like the dead.

 

 

 

 

 

......

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much like Jim would do, this story has taken me by the (figurative) balls and told me exactly where it's going—regardless of my opinion on the matter. This was not my vision of events when I set out writing this story, or even this chapter, but I'm trying to listen to my characters and stay true to what they say needs doing. I have faith they won't lead me astray.
> 
> As for you, dear readers, know that I'm sending a virtual hug to each and every one of you.
> 
> On a personal note, I want to say I've visited Cardiff and found it really great. As so often happens, Seb's opinions on the matter do not reflect the author's.
> 
> Thanks, as always to Marly, Darcysmom, and the girls of the DTCPS—you are my rocks.
> 
> Until we meet again,  
> s


End file.
